Twenty Thousand Leagues under the Sea
our view, and the best spy-glasses could not pierce it. That caused
disappointment and anger.
I climbed the mizzen-mast. Some officers were already perched on the
mast heads. At eight o’clock the fog lay heavily on the waves, and its
thick scrolls rose little by little. The horizon grew wider and clearer
at the same time. Suddenly, just as on the day before, Ned Land’s voice
was heard:
“The thing itself on the port quarter!” cried the harpooner.
Every eye was turned towards the point indicated. There, a mile and a
half from the frigate, a long blackish body emerged a yard above the
waves. Its tail, violently agitated, produced a considerable eddy.
Never did a caudal appendage beat the sea with such violence. An
immense track, of dazzling whiteness, marked the passage of the animal,
and described a long curve.
The frigate approached the cetacean. I examined it thoroughly.
The reports of the _Shannon_ and of the _Helvetia_ had rather
exaggerated its size, and I estimated its length at only two hundred
and fifty feet. As to its dimensions, I could only conjecture them to
be admirably proportioned. While I watched this phenomenon, two jets of
steam and water were ejected from its vents, and rose to the height of
120 feet; thus I ascertained its way of breathing. I concluded
definitely that it belonged to the vertebrate branch, class mammalia.
The crew waited impatiently for their chief’s orders. The latter, after
having observed the animal attentively, called the engineer. The
engineer ran to him.
“Sir,” said the commander, “you have steam up?”
“Yes, sir,” answered the engineer.
“Well, make up your fires and put on all steam.”
Three hurrahs greeted this order. The time for the struggle had
arrived. Some moments after, the two funnels of the frigate vomited
torrents of black smoke, and the bridge quaked under the trembling of
the boilers.
The _Abraham Lincoln_, propelled by her wonderful screw, went straight
at the animal. The latter allowed it to come within half a cable’s
length; then, as if disdaining to dive, it took a little turn, and
stopped a short distance off.
This pursuit lasted nearly three-quarters of an hour, without the
frigate gaining two yards on the cetacean. It was quite evident that at
that rate we should never come up with it.
“Well, Mr. Land,” asked the captain, “do you advise me to put the boats
out to sea?”
“No, sir,” replied Ned Land; “because we shall not take that beast
easily.”
“What shall we do then?”
“Put on more steam if you can, sir. With your leave, I mean to post
myself under the bowsprit, and if we get within harpooning distance, I
shall throw my harpoon.”
“Go, Ned,” said the captain. “Engineer, put on more pressure.”
Ned Land went to his post. The fires were increased, the screw revolved
forty-three times a minute, and the steam poured out of the valves. We
heaved the log, and calculated that the _Abraham Lincoln_ was going at
the rate of 18½ miles an hour.
But the accursed animal swam too at the rate of 18½ miles an hour.
For a whole hour, the frigate kept up this pace, without gaining six
feet. It was humiliating for one of the swiftest sailers in the
American navy. A stubborn anger seized the crew; the sailors abused the
monster, who, as before, disdained to answer them; the captain no
longer contented himself with twisting his beard—he gnawed it.
The engineer was again called.
“You have turned full steam in?”
“Yes, sir,” replied the engineer.
The speed of the _Abraham Lincoln_ increased. Its masts trembled down
to their stepping holes, and the clouds of smoke could hardly find way
out of the narrow funnels.
They heaved the log a second time.
“Well?” asked the captain of the man at the wheel.
“Nineteen miles and three-tenths, sir.”
“Clap on more steam.”
The engineer obeyed. The manometer showed ten degrees. But the cetacean
grew warm itself, no doubt; for without straining itself, it made
19-3/10 miles.
What a pursuit! No, I cannot describe the emotion that vibrated through
me. Ned Land kept his post, harpoon in hand. Several times the animal
let us gain upon it.—“We shall catch it! we shall catch it!” cried the
Canadian. But just as he was going to strike, the cetacean stole away
with a rapidity that could not be estimated at less than thirty miles
an hour, and even during our maximum of speed, it bullied the frigate,
going round and round it. A cry of fury broke from everyone!
At noon we were no further advanced than at eight o’clock in the
morning.
The captain then decided to take more direct means.
“Ah!” said he, “that animal goes quicker than the _Abraham Lincoln_.
Very well! we will see whether it will escape these conical bullets.
Send your men to the forecastle, sir.”
The forecastle gun was immediately loaded and slewed round. But the
shot passed some feet above the cetacean, which was half a mile off.
“Another, more to the right,” cried the commander, “and five dollars to
whoever will hit that infernal beast.”
An old gunner with a grey beard—that I can see now—with steady eye and
grave face, went up to the gun and took a long aim. A loud report was
heard, with which were mingled the cheers of the crew.
[Illustration] An old grey-bearded gunner . . . .
The bullet did its work; it hit the animal, but not fatally, and
sliding off the rounded surface, was lost in two miles depth of sea.
The chase began again, and the captain, leaning towards me, said—
“I will pursue that beast till my frigate bursts up.”
“Yes,” answered I; “and you will be quite right to do it.”
I wished the beast would exhaust itself, and not be insensible to
fatigue like a steam engine! But it was of no use. Hours passed,
without its showing any signs of exhaustion.
However, it must be said in praise of the _Abraham Lincoln_, that she
struggled on indefatigably. I cannot reckon the distance she made under
three hundred miles during this unlucky day, November the 6th. But
night came on, and overshadowed the rough ocean.
Now I thought our expedition was at an end, and that we should never
again see the extraordinary animal. I was mistaken. At ten minutes to
eleven in the evening, the electric light reappeared three miles to
windward of the frigate, as pure, as intense as during the preceding
night.
The narwhal seemed motionless; perhaps, tired with its day’s work, it
slept, letting itself float with the undulation of the waves. Now was a
chance of which the captain resolved to take advantage.
He gave his orders. The _Abraham Lincoln_ kept up half steam, and
advanced cautiously so as not to awake its adversary. It is no rare
thing to meet in the middle of the ocean whales so sound asleep that
they can be successfully attacked, and Ned Land had harpooned more than
one during its sleep. The Canadian went to take his place again under
the bowsprit.
The frigate approached noiselessly, stopped at two cables’ lengths from
the animal, and following its track. No one breathed; a deep silence
reigned on the bridge. We were not a hundred feet from the burning
focus, the light of which increased and dazzled our eyes.
At this moment, leaning on the forecastle bulwark, I saw below me Ned
Land grappling the martingale in one hand, brandishing his terrible
harpoon in the other, scarcely twenty feet from the motionless animal.
Suddenly his arm straightened, and the harpoon was thrown; I heard the
sonorous stroke of the weapon, which seemed to have struck a hard body.
The electric light went out suddenly, and two enormous waterspouts
broke over the bridge of the frigate, rushing like a torrent from stem
to stern, overthrowing men, and breaking the lashings of the spars. A
fearful shock followed, and, thrown over the rail without having time
to stop myself, I fell into the sea.
CHAPTER VII
AN UNKNOWN SPECIES OF WHALE
This unexpected fall so stunned me that I have no clear recollection of
my sensations at the time. I was at first drawn down to a depth of
about twenty feet. I am a good swimmer (though without pretending to
rival Byron or Edgar Poe, who were masters of the art), and in that
plunge I did not lose my presence of mind. Two vigorous strokes brought
me to the surface of the water. My first care was to look for the
frigate. Had the crew seen me disappear? Had the _Abraham Lincoln_
veered round? Would the captain put out a boat? Might I hope to be
saved?
The darkness was intense. I caught a glimpse of a black mass
disappearing in the east, its beacon lights dying out in the distance.
It was the frigate! I was lost.
“Help, help!” I shouted, swimming towards the _Abraham Lincoln_ in
desperation.
My clothes encumbered me; they seemed glued to my body, and paralysed
my movements.
I was sinking! I was suffocating!
“Help!”
This was my last cry. My mouth filled with water; I struggled against
being drawn down the abyss. Suddenly my clothes were seized by a strong
hand, and I felt myself quickly drawn up to the surface of the sea; and
I heard, yes, I heard these words pronounced in my ear—
“If master would be so good as to lean on my shoulder, master would
swim with much greater ease.”
I seized with one hand my faithful Conseil’s arm.
“Is it you?” said I, “you?”
“Myself,” answered Conseil; “and waiting master’s orders.”
“That shock threw you as well as me into the sea?”
“No; but being in my master’s service, I followed him.”
The worthy fellow thought that was but natural.
“And the frigate?” I asked.
“The frigate?” replied Conseil, turning on his back; “I think that
master had better not count too much on her.”
“You think so?”
“I say that, at the time I threw myself into the sea, I heard the men
at the wheel say, ‘The screw and the rudder are broken.’”
“Broken?”
“Yes, broken by the monster’s teeth. It is the only injury the _Abraham
Lincoln_ has sustained. But it is a bad look out for us—she no longer
answers her helm.”
“Then we are lost!”
“Perhaps so,” calmly answered Conseil. “However, we have still several
hours before us, and one can do a good deal in some hours.”
Conseil’s imperturbable coolness set me up again. I swam more
vigorously; but, cramped by my clothes, which stuck to me like a leaden
weight, I felt great difficulty in bearing up. Conseil saw this.
“Will master let me make a slit?” said he; and, slipping an open knife
under my clothes, he ripped them up from top to bottom very rapidly.
Then he cleverly slipped them off me, while I swam for both of us.
Then I did the same for Conseil, and we continued to swim near to each
other.
Nevertheless, our situation was no less terrible. Perhaps our
disappearance had not been noticed; and if it had been, the frigate
could not tack, being without its helm. Conseil argued on this
supposition, and laid his plans accordingly. This phlegmatic boy was
perfectly self-possessed. We then decided that, as our only chance of
safety was being picked up by the _Abraham Lincoln’s_ boats, we ought
to manage so as to wait for them as long as possible. I resolved then
to husband our strength, so that both should not be exhausted at the
same time; and this is how we managed: while one of us lay on our back,
quite still, with arms crossed, and legs stretched out, the other would
swim and push the other on in front. This towing business did not last
more than ten minutes each; and relieving each other thus, we could
swim on for some hours, perhaps till daybreak. Poor chance! but hope is
so firmly rooted in the heart of man! Moreover, there were two of us.
Indeed I declare (though it may seem improbable) if I sought to destroy
all hope,—if I wished to despair, I could not.
The collision of the frigate with the cetacean had occurred about