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What would Caroline say about what he’d done? And hadn’t he and Caroline been passengers aboard a British navy ship to and from their African balloon journey?

He took his vessel through the calm waters of the Red Sea to the southern end of the Suez Isthmus where the great canal had at long last been finished. Though well behind schedule, the French engineer de Lesseps had accomplished his tremendous feat. The narrow thread of land that separated the Mediterranean from the Indian subcontinent had been severed. Sailing vessels no longer needed to make the long trek around the bottom of Africa’s Cape of Good Hope and back up again.

At the mouth of the canal, the Nautilus lurked underwater. The crew watched the first triumphant French ships cruise through the waterway, firing celebratory cannons and waving colorful banners.

In his dream to become master of the world, Caliph Robur had intended to use the Nautilus to sink those ships, to trap them in the bottleneck of the Suez Canal. Now Nemo simply watched the procession from inside his technological dream. . . .

That night, Nemo took his sub-marine boat northward through the shallow channel out of the Red Sea, reentered the Mediterranean, then headed west toward the Straits of Gibraltar.

In the following weeks, Cyrus Harding took over the less pleasant chores whenever they encountered prospective victims, vulnerable warships. Nemo found himself spending more and more time in the great salon, admiring the wonders of the oceans, the cradle of life on Earth.

He rested, reading his treasured books, even some of Jules Verne’s amusing “Extraordinary Voyages,” obtained through secretive forays into dockside cities where they could purchase newspapers and learn what was going on in the world.

He had read Five Weeks in a Balloon, and though the adventure was certainly entertaining, Jules Verne’s inexperience had shown, depicting many of the African people in a distorted and highly unflattering manner, painting sinister pictures of Arabs and calling them all slavers, though Nemo had found many groups and tribes engaging in the heinous practice. It was a matter of evil men, not a matter of their race. But Verne’s civilized readers knew no better, and accepted the broad-strokes account as well-researched fact.

Nemo felt empty and dejected, aimless and lost, but could not articulate exactly why. How much would have been different if he’d just stayed with Caroline, so long ago? Or if he’d gone back to her, like a sensible man?

He was 42 years old now and had seen many things and many places in his life. For amusement, he’d even taken the Nautilus up to the coast of Norway and seen the fabled maelstrom from Verne’s story, in which the fictional Nautilus had sunk. The real sub-marine vessel swam through the whirlpool with ease, though, looking down on a graveyard of less-fortunate ships. . . .

As Nemo relaxed in the salon, looking into the depths of the Atlantic, Cyrus Harding came to him. “Captain, sir, we’ve encountered another warship. A vessel from the United States. She carries forty cannon and rides low in the water. Full of armaments, I believe.”

Searching for the passion that had driven him to such a crusade in the first place, Nemo left his books and his moment of peace, and walked to the porthole, yet said nothing. Harding, a man of calm demeanor and intent, waited for his captain’s response. “Should we attack, Captain? She fits the criteria we’ve established.”

Nemo detected no eagerness in Harding’s voice. The British second-in-command was never eager for the kill, but he did know his duty. “At your discretion, Mr. Harding,” Nemo said, taking the other man aback.

Finally, Harding gave a brief nod. “She does meet the criteria, Captain. I recommend we engage.”

“Very well.” Nemo ran a hand along his dark, trimmed beard. “I will meet you on the bridge momentarily.”

He should have returned to Paris, asked Caroline to accept him again, even with the dark blots