Fifteen
Brig Coralie
October, 1841
The winch creaked as sailors raised a dripping net out of the water. A hoarse-voiced man chanted a work tune, and Ned Land stood on the quarterdeck, directing operations with his brawny arms. With a shout, the men released the catch and the bulging net spilled open. Strange fish rained flopping onto the deck.
“’Tis a big haul, aye!” Ned bellowed. “These waters be filled with fish.”
With long-practiced ease, a barefoot Nemo ran forward with the other crew members to grab the slippery prizes. His hands and clothes already smelled like old fish and fresh tar. After more than a year aboard the brig, he knew every knot in every rope, every splinter on the topdeck boards.
Like the rest of the crew, he wore a checked shirt and a black-varnished tarpaulin hat, even in the heat. Duck trousers fit snug around the hips and loose about the feet in wide bell-bottoms that could be rolled up in a flash. Seasoned sailors walked the deck with their hands half-open and fingers curled, ready to grasp a rope in an instant at a rigger’s barked command.
The cook already had his pots and barrels ready for the fresh haul of fish, while Captain Grant—not afraid to get dirty and slimy—stood in the midst of the mess and called for Nemo to grab any unusual fish to be preserved in his alcohol bottles.
The English captain, a naturalist and explorer, kept a library of specimens in his cabin and maintained careful records in a massive scientific logbook. He had taken the young man under his wing, instructing Nemo in mathematics and the English language, as well as the nautical arts and sciences. On calm evenings, Nemo helped the captain sketch some of the stranger species they had caught. Drawing reminded him of Caroline Aronnax and her artistic aspirations, and he toyed with the now-frayed hair ribbon on his wrist, thinking thoughts of Ile Feydeau and Jules Verne.…
After Captain Grant made his selections from the wriggling catch, the cook grabbed what he wanted for the stewpot, and the remaining fish were dumped back overboard. Then, under the beating sun, Nemo and his crewmates set to work swabbing the deck, cleaning fish guts and scales from the boards. He looked toward the horizon to see a haze hinting at the southwestern coast of Africa.
Fourteen months at sea had made his olive skin brown and his muscles as strong as capstan knots. For Nemo, this ship already felt like home.
When the Coralie had first set sail, every seaman seemed to know what to do—except Nemo. Unintelligible orders were barked and followed without question. Nemo tried to help, but found himself more often in the way. He did his best to stand clear as the sailors intuitively worked the ropes and sails.
“I warrant there’s no more helpless and pitiable an object as a landsman beginning a sailor’s life,” Captain Grant had said from the quarterdeck, his voice warm and understanding. “Don’t fret, lad—within a month, ye’ll be scurrying about to follow the same orders without a second thought. Best enjoy these first days on deck, because there’ll be little enough time for sentiment once we get under way.”
Indeed, it hadn’t taken long for the change to occur in Nemo. As the ship voyaged southward, the salty breezes and sun-glared blue expanse began calling to him like a mermaid’s song. During the day, trade winds stretched the sails taut and made the rigging hum. The layers of canvas lapped each other in patterns assigned by the captain, pulling the three-masted brig along as if by the finger of God.
In the lower decks, bunks and hammocks were shared between the port and starboard watches. Open hatches let in sunshine and fresh air; lanterns hung from the rafters, providing the only light when the hatches were sealed against stormy weather.
Each man had his kit of meager possessions and changes of clothes that would last him for two years on board the Coralie. When not on watch, the crew slept and lived amongst the coils of rigging rope, spare sails, and patch cloth. Belowdecks on quiet evenings, older seamen told stories, topping each tale with another. The thick air was redolent of old sweat and old fish. Nemo swung in his hammock and listened to their lore with a contented smile.
The deck fittings were painted light gray to be visible on moonless nights; the deck houses were white and stood out smartly against a rich oiled deck. And on the night watch, a blizzard of stars in the dark sky shone down like nothing Nemo had ever seen from Nantes.…
The Coralie had gone south along the coast of France and around the Iberian Peninsula, with a four-day stop in Lisbon, where Captain Grant had once spent several years learning his trade from a Portuguese mentor. The Portuguese were themselves great explorers of the oceans, and revered their long-ago monarch, Prince Henry the Navigator, as if he were a patron saint.
Lisbon was a city that looked like a staircase. The streets and whitewashed buildings stumbled down from the surrounding summer-brown hills. The crowded houses stood in successive layers, their narrow windows bedecked with flowerboxes. Level after level led down to the Tagus River, which spilled into a calm, sheltered harbor at its mouth. The air was heavy with screaming gulls and the moist, salty scent of the sea.
After Portugal, they continued south to Casablanca in Morocco. The Coralie sat at anchor across from Gibraltar where the sea turned a jewel blue against the curve of sandy shore. Five times each day, the muezzins stood atop the elegant spires of minarets, calling out to summon the faithful into mosques for prayer. Their warbling voices sang out across the crowded and haphazard streets, echoing along the walls of white-limed houses.
After putting ashore again on the Canary Islands, they cut across the hot and moist doldrums of the Tropic of Cancer, then rounded the western elbow of Africa, Cape Bojador, which was once thought to be the end of the world.
Standing on deck, Nemo saw bleak deserts that poked into the ocean, turning the water a dirty brown with suspended sand. The Coralie sailed past barren cliffs of naked sandstone, where the burning sun baked the rock so that not even a weed could grow in the crannies.
Captain Grant guided them south along the Gold Coast, the Ivory Coast, the Ebony Coast, until they reached the wide mouth of the Congo River. They stopped at a Belgian outpost, trading a few items from the hold to stock up on fresh fruit and meat.
When they reached the Cape of Good Hope, the Coralie lay at anchor while Nemo rode with Ned Land in a skiff dispatched to negotiate docking privileges at Capetown. All travelers were welcome, and any non-hostile ship received permission to drop anchor in the harbor.
The Dutch had established Capetown Colony, raising vegetables to sell to passing ships that rounded the southern tip of Africa en route to the Orient. In the past decade, the town had spread from the beach up the surrounding hills. Now Capetown had three hospitals, a military parade ground, and six chapels and churches serving various faiths.
More than a century before, the Swedish naturalist Carl Peter Thunberg had filled volumes with specimens obtained from South African shores. Thunberg had tramped across the wilds, heedless of predators, collecting samples from unexplored cliffsides and rugged valleys. He wore out three pairs of shoes in a single expedition.
“’Tis sad so little remains in all the world to discover, lad,” Captain Grant said, looking at the horizon. “But whatever remains, we shall find it.”
Now, as the skiff from the Coralie approached the Capetown shore, Ned Land stood at the prow. The big Upper Canadian pointed with a callused hand. “Look there, scamp—that be Table Mountain, and there be the Lion’s Head.” He winked at Nemo. “If ye want more civilized sights, in town ye’ll see elegant houses, the likes o’ which ye’d find in London, Glasgow, or Paris.”
The quartermaster was eager to be ashore, because once on dry land he could smoke tobacco again. On board the ship, smoking was forbidden because of the fire danger; instead, the sailors had to chew plugs of tobacco and spit brown streams over the sides. Ned pulled his clay pipe from a shirt pocket, holding it with anticipation. Maybe, Nemo thought, the Canadian could also get a new striped shirt.…
The Coralie remained at the Cape of Good Hope for a fortnight while her crew cleaned hull and hold, refitted and restocked. Nemo composed and sent long letters to Caroline Aronnax. He still remembered the way her hair shone in the sun, the scent of her perfume, the feel of her parting embrace … all as if it were yesterday. He hummed the melody of some of her illicit musical compositions.
Nemo also tore out the pages of his journal describing the voyage thus far and posted them back to Jules Verne, so that his friend could read a detailed account of more than a year aboard ship. Though he wished Verne had been able to accompany him, Nemo had no regrets.
Captain Grant did not approve of his crew’s wild impulses in the city known as the “Tavern of the Seas,” but he preferred them to let off steam under the watchful eyes of Capetown’s magistrates, rather than on his ship.
When they returned aboard for the last time, exhausted and penniless, the Coralie’s crew was ready to set off for the Indian Ocean.…