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The quartermaster was a broad-shouldered Upper Canadian named Ned Land, who had sailed with the English captain on other journeys. His chest was as broad and as hard as one of the kegs in the larder, and his curly blond hair looked disheveled no matter how often he wetted or greased it down. His striped shirt had been painstakingly mended with Ned’s own sewing skills during long hours aboard ship.

In his rough and salty accent, Ned Land had claimed he could bring down seagulls with his rifle when they were only black specks in the sky. Verne didn’t ask why Ned would want to shoot at seagulls, but he and Nemo expressed appropriate appreciation for the man’s marksmanship.

In addition to his duties as quartermaster, Ned also served as the boatswain, sailing master, and Captain Grant’s first lieutenant. The big Canadian had a blustery good humor and the uncomfortable habit of clapping both Nemo and Verne on the back hard enough to make them think one of the cargo chests had dropped on them.

“Hark, Jules! Boy, yer wanted up to the bridge,” Ned bellowed. “Come too, André Nemo.”

Puzzled, Verne hoped the captain meant to let them watch as the local pilot guided the Coralie out of the harbor and into the open Atlantic. They scrambled up the ladders into the last rays of the sunset. The anchors had been drawn up, but the ropes were still tied to the quay and the gangplank remained in place. A few seamen stood by the sail ropes and looked oddly at the two, but Verne didn’t pause. He and Nemo trotted up the wooden stairs to the quarterdeck and the captain’s cabin.

Inside, Captain Grant sat in the large chair, staring across his tiny bureau at Pierre Verne. Seeing his father, Verne’s heart turned to stone and sank to his stomach. Nemo stopped beside him at the doorway, but didn’t say a word.

Pierre Verne gazed at his son, and his peppery sideburns bristled. Verne could read behind the man’s gray eyes that a terrible storm brewed inside.

Captain Grant looked at Jules with a sad smile and pulled out the single sheet of paper both recruits had signed. “It is my sad duty to rescind your contract, sir.” With a flourish, he tore the paper in half. “In normal times, ‘twould not be this easy for a cabin boy to get out of his term of service, but your father and I have reached an agreement.”

He offered the scraps of the contract to the redhead, but Pierre Verne snatched them away and stuffed them into the pocket of his jacket. Tears of shame filled Verne’s eyes, and he looked over at Nemo. “You’ll have to go alone after all. But I would have come this time. I really meant to.”

“I know, Jules,” Nemo said.

“We will go home now,” Pierre Verne said, his voice as gritty and cold as the last block of ice stored in sawdust after winter. “Your mother is waiting.”

Verne turned to Nemo, remembering the possessions beside his assigned hammock belowdecks. “Keep my books, André. Think of me when you read them. And the journal -- write what happens, so that when we see each other again I can read everything you did, since I can’t be there with you.”

“I’ll write everything down,” Nemo said. “I promise.”

Pierre Verne placed a strong hand like a vice on his son’s shoulder, but Verne broke away and embraced his friend. “I’ll see you in two years, three at the most.”

In truth, it would be a great many more years before they set eyes on each other again. . . .

xiv

When Jules Verne returned home to his concerned siblings and a tearful mother, Pierre Verne gave him the worst caning in his life. He was exiled to his room and locked inside, as if he might attempt to escape.

For three days Jules received only bread and water. Worse, his father did not even lecture him. The silence was far harder to endure. The young man had no opportunity to explain himself, could not say what he was feeling. No one gave him a chance.

At times he sensed his mother outside the closed door, but she refused to comfort him. Then the stairs would creak softly as she went back down to the lower levels of the house. Instead,