Captain Nemo_ The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius - Kevin J Anderson [31]
“Then, lad, during the American rebellion in 1776, a Yankee named Bushnell built a sealed ship he called the Turtle, barely large enough to hold one occupant. ‘Twas driven by two hand-cranked screw propellers, one for vertical movement, one to go forward. Sergeant Ezra Lee took the Turtle underwater toward the loyal British flagship Eagle anchored in New York harbor. He carried an explosive charge to attach to the hull plate. Fortunately for the British, he couldn’t maneuver at all, and got lost. He never did manage to sink our ship.”
Nemo peeled a cold egg. “So no one has made a functional sub-marine boat?”
Captain Grant dipped his knife into a small pot and smeared mustard onto a slice of gray-brown salt beef. “Robert Fulton, the American who invented the steamboat, came close to succeeding at the turn of this century. He journeyed to France in 1797 and your Napoleon Bonaparte granted him funding to build a functional vessel 25 feet long. ‘Twas metal and streamlined like a fish, could hold three or four men in its belly, and used inclined diving planes to submerge. Compressed-air tanks augmented the oxygen supply. In theory, the vessel could stay underwater for six hours.”
“Six hours?” Nemo remembered his experiment with the bladder helmet and reed-breathing tubes in the Loire. “And did it work?”
“Aye, but Napoleon never saw any military potential in underwater ships. Fulton rallied no support from the British or American governments, either, so he abandoned his lovely sub-marine in 1806.”
Nemo, his imagination captivated now, met his mentor’s eyes. “Did Fulton’s sub-marine boat have a name?”
Grant rummaged through his notebooks, confident that he could lay his hands on any bit of information. “Aye, he christened it the Nautilus.”
iv
The Straits of Malacca, a narrow trench between Malaysia on the north and Sumatra on the south, were known to be haunted by seafaring bandits. As the Coralie navigated the narrows, Captain Grant maintained full crews at the cannon, powder magazines, and crow’s nests.
“We stop at Borneo, perhaps Java, then continue to the Philippines before we strike across the Pacific to the Sandwich Islands.” Grant indicated the specific islands on the large nautical chart mounted under glass in the navigation room. “I warrant we’ll see San Francisco before Christmas next.”
Days after the three-masted brig emerged into the island-cluttered waters of Indonesia, Nemo sat at the bow, cradling in his lap one of the books Verne had left for him, a worn copy of DeFoe’s Robinson Crusoe. He and his friend had sat at the edge of the Loire, imagining what they might do if ever marooned on a deserted island.
Engrossed in the story, Nemo did not hear the captain’s footfalls above the groan of the rigging ropes and the whisper of tight sails. Captain Grant saw what his cabin boy was reading. “Crusoe, eh? You know the account DeFoe used for his inspiration, lad?”
Nemo looked up at the captain. “Robinson Crusoe is a true tale, sir?”
“Not exactly,” Captain Grant replied with a smile. “‘Twas told by the pirate William Dampier, who was also a naturalist and meticulous observer. One of his men, a Scottish sailor named Alexander Selkirk, demanded to be put ashore after a disastrous raid against the Spaniards. Dampier left him off the coast of South America, then sailed away.”
“So he was marooned?” Nemo asked.
“By his own choice, lad. Four and a half years later, when William Dampier came around Cape Horn again -- this time commissioned as the navigator on a legitimate ship, not a privateer -- the crew spotted a strange light on the coast. When they stopped to investigate, they found a bedraggled Selkirk, who had built a huge fire to attract them. The poor man had not seen another living soul for four long years.”
Seeing Nemo’s