Eleven
While the three-masted ship traveled downriver into the wide estuary, Verne and Nemo stood on the scrubbed deck in exhilaration. They whistled to people on shore; some waved back, but most had seen so many ships go along the Loire that they found nothing special about it anymore.
The night before, in the deep darkness before dawn, the two had caught a few hours’ sleep on the Coralie’s deck, and they awoke feeling stiff and sore. But their excitement at setting out from Nantes filled them with energy. Verne couldn’t believe they were underway, plying the winds and currents. Each moment, he grew farther from his family and home as the breeze freshened and the sails strained like the belly of a gluttonous man.
After the bustle of early morning duties, Captain Grant came to introduce himself, shaking Verne’s hand and giving him an assessing look. The English captain had close-cropped brown hair, broad shoulders, and thin and wiry arms. His wide-set eyes were surrounded by a deep set of crow’s feet, as if he had spent too many years gazing into sunrises and sunsets. He wore a mustache in the English style and spoke stilted French with a strong accent, though Verne and Nemo could understand him well enough.
“I warrant we’ll spend plenty of time together while we sail. ’Tisn’t often I’m called upon to educate such fine young men as cabin boys.” He patted the two on their bony shoulders. “I’ve got no children of mine own—so you two must substitute on this voyage.” Grant’s voice was gentle and intelligent, but when he barked orders at his sailors, the long-practiced tone of command invited no questions.
When the ship tied up at Paimboeuf just past noon, some sailors went ashore to procure last-minute supplies, while another part of the crew worked on board. Here on the Atlantic coast of France, the ships were larger. Some of the huge four-masters boasted spacious cargo holds larger than the Cynthia and the Coralie combined.
Captain Grant pointed to the new cabin boys. “You two better go ashore while you’re still able—and mark the feel of solid ground under your feet. I warrant it’ll be some time before you do it again.” He marched down the creaking gangplank. “See that you return in an hour, lads, and be ready to sail.” The captain tipped his hat at two young ladies strolling by, then headed for the harbormaster’s offices to fill out final paperwork and enter his logs.
As they departed from the ship, Verne thought of his mother’s cooking and the well-guarded secret recipe of her special omelet. He smiled at the memory of how his sisters played the pianoforte, how he often recited poetry or made up impromptu verses after dinner.
Then he thought of exotic countries, strange animals, and mysterious cultures. He wanted to see them all. In time, his family would get over their shock at his departure, and he would become a man, more rounded than he could ever be if he spent his life on Ile Feydeau.
Verne vowed never to regret his decision. Even though Nemo’s father had been killed, and Verne was leaving his own father behind, the two young men could now become surrogate sons, children of Captain Grant.
He followed Nemo through the dockside markets, wandering down the rows of carts where women sold fresh shellfish. Merchants tallied colorful bolts of silk from China, tusks of ivory from Africa, jaguar pelts from Central America, monkeys in cages, parrots with brilliant plumage, dried shark fins, drinking cups made of rhinoceros horn (guaranteed to shatter at the touch of poison). Though they had little money, he and Nemo moved from stall to stall, eyeing the wares with fascination. Verne kept his eyes open for something special to bring back for Caroline.
He fingered the green ribbon tied at his wrist, which only last night had held back the lush hair of Caroline Aronnax. Then Verne remembered the tinkling melodies she composed in secret; by the time he returned, perhaps Caroline could compose an entire symphony to celebrate their triumphs.…