海底两万里 Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea 4

Chapter 4

COMMANDER FARRAGUTwas a good seaman, worthy of the frigatehe commanded. His ship and he were one. He was its very soul.On thecetaceanquestion no doubts arose in his mind, and he didn'tallow the animal's existence to be disputed aboard his vessel.He believed in it as certain pious women believe in the leviathanfrom the Book of Job—out of faith, not reason. The monster existed,and he had vowed to rid the seas of it. The man was a sort ofKnight of Rhodes, a latter–day Sir Dieudonné of Gozo, on his wayto fight an encounter with the dragon devastating the island.Either Commander Farragut would slay the narwhale, or the narwhalewould slay Commander Farragut. No middle of the road for these two.

The ship's officers shared the views of their leader. They couldbe heard chatting, discussing, arguing, calculating the differentchances of an encounter, and observing the vast expanse of the ocean.Voluntary watches from the crosstrees of the topgallant sailwere self–imposed by more than one who would have cursed such toilunder any other circumstances. As often as the sun swept overits daily arc, the masts were populated with sailors whose feetitched and couldn't hold still on the planking of the deck below!And theAbraham Lincoln'sstempost hadn't even cut the suspectedwaters of the Pacific.

As for the crew, they only wanted to encounter the unicorn,harpoon it, haul it on board, and carve it up. They surveyed the seawith scrupulous care. Besides, Commander Farragut had mentionedthat a certain sum of $2,000.00 was waiting for the man who firstsighted the animal, be he cabin boy or sailor, mate or officer.I'll let the reader decide whether eyes got proper exercise aboardtheAbraham Lincoln.

As for me, I didn't lag behind the others and I yielded to noone my share in these daily observations. Our frigate wouldhave had fivescore good reasons for renaming itself theArgus,after that mythological beast with 100 eyes! The lone rebel amongus was Conseil, who seemed utterly uninterested in the questionexciting us and was out of step with the general enthusiasm on board.

As I said, Commander Farragut had carefully equipped his shipwith all the gear needed to fish for a giganticcetacean.No whaling vessel could have been better armed. We had everyknown mechanism, from the hand–hurled harpoon, to the blunderbussfiring barbed arrows, to the duck gun with exploding bullets.On the forecastle was mounted the latest model breech–loading cannon,very heavy of barrel and narrow of bore, a weapon that would figurein the Universal Exhibition of 1867. Made in America, this valuableinstrument could fire a four–kilogram conical projectile an averagedistance of sixteen kilometers without the least bother.

So theAbraham Lincolnwasn't lacking in means of destruction.But it had better still. It had Ned Land, the King of Harpooners.

Gifted with uncommon manual ability, Ned Land was a Canadian who hadno equal in his dangerous trade. Dexterity, coolness, bravery,and cunning were virtues he possessed to a high degree, and it tooka truly crafty baleen whale or an exceptionally astute sperm whaleto elude the thrusts of his harpoon.

Ned Land was about forty years old. A man of great height—over sixEnglish feet—he was powerfully built, serious in manner, not verysociable, sometimes headstrong, and quite ill–tempered when crossed.His looks caught the attention, and above all the strength of his gaze,which gave a unique emphasis to his facial appearance.

Commander Farragut, to my thinking, had made a wise move in hiringon this man. With his eye and his throwing arm, he was worththe whole crew all by himself. I can do no better than to comparehim with a powerful telescope that could double as a cannon alwaysready to fire.

To say Canadian is to say French, and as unsociable asNed Land was, I must admit he took a definite liking to me.No doubt it was my nationality that attracted him.It was an opportunity for him to speak, and for me to hear,that old Rabelaisian dialect still used in some Canadian provinces.The harpooner's family originated in Quebec, and they were alreadya line of bold fishermen back in the days when this town stillbelonged to France.

Little by little Ned developed a taste for chatting, and I lovedhearing the tales of his adventures in the polar seas. He describedhis fishing trips and his battles with great natural lyricism.His tales took on the form of an epic poem, and I felt I was hearingsome Canadian Homer reciting hisIliadof the High Arctic regions.

I'm writing of this bold companion as I currently know him.Because we've become old friends, united in that permanentcomradeship born and cemented during only the most frightful crises!Ah, my gallant Ned! I ask only to live 100 years more, the longerto remember you!

And now, what were Ned Land's views on this question of a marine monster?I must admit that he flatly didn't believe in the unicorn,and alone on board, he didn't share the general conviction.He avoided even dealing with the subject, for which one day I feltcompelled to take him to task.

During the magnificent evening of June 25—in other words, three weeksafter our departure—the frigate lay abreast of Cabo Blanco,thirty miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossedthe Tropic of Capricorn, and the Strait of Magellan openedless than 700 miles to the south. Before eight days were out,theAbraham Lincolnwould plow the waves of the Pacific.

Seated on the afterdeck, Ned Land and I chatted about one thingand another, staring at that mysterious sea whose depths to thisday are beyond the reach of human eyes. Quite naturally,I led our conversation around to the giant unicorn, and I weighedour expedition's various chances for success or failure.Then, seeing that Ned just let me talk without saying much himself,I pressed him more closely.

"Ned," I asked him, "how can you still doubt the reality of thiscetaceanwe're after? Do you have any particular reasons forbeing so skeptical?"

The harpooner stared at me awhile before replying, slapped hisbroad forehead in one of his standard gestures, closed his eyesas if to collect himself, and finally said:

"Just maybe, Professor Aronnax."

"But Ned, you're a professional whaler, a man familiar with allthe great marine mammals—your mind should easily accept thishypothesis of an enormouscetacean, and you ought to be the lastone to doubt it under these circumstances!"

"That's just where you're mistaken, professor," Ned replied."The common man may still believe in fabulous comets crossingouter space, or in prehistoric monsters living at the earth's core,but astronomers and geologists don't swallow such fairy tales.It's the same with whalers. I've chased plenty ofcetaceans,I've harpooned a good number, I've killed several. But no matterhow powerful and well armed they were, neither their tails or theirtusks could puncture the sheet–iron plates of a steamer."

"Even so, Ned, people mention vessels that narwhale tusks haverun clean through."

"Wooden ships maybe," the Canadian replied. "But I've never seenthe like. So till I have proof to the contrary, I'll deny thatbaleen whales, sperm whales, or unicorns can do any such thing."

"Listen to me, Ned—"

"No, no, professor. I'll go along with anything you want except that.Some gigantic devilfish maybe . . . ?"

"Even less likely, Ned. The devilfish is merely a mollusk, and even thisname hints at its semiliquid flesh, because it's Latin meaning, 'soft one.'The devilfish doesn't belong to the vertebrate branch, and even if itwere 500 feet long, it would still be utterly harmless to shipslike theScotiaor theAbraham Lincoln. Consequently, the featsof krakens or other monsters of that ilk must be relegated tothe realm of fiction."

"So, Mr. Naturalist," Ned Land continued in a bantering tone,"you'll just keep on believing in the existence of someenormouscetacean. . . ?"

"Yes, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction backed by factual logic.I believe in the existence of a mammal with a powerful constitution,belonging to the vertebrate branch like baleen whales, sperm whales,or dolphins, and armed with a tusk made of horn that hastremendous penetrating power."

"Humph!" the harpooner put in, shaking his head with the attitudeof a man who doesn't want to be convinced.

"Note well, my fine Canadian," I went on, "if such an animal exists,if it lives deep in the ocean, if it frequents the liquid stratalocated miles beneath the surface of the water, it needs to havea constitution so solid, it defies all comparison."

"And why this powerful constitution?" Ned asked.

"Because it takes incalculable strength just to live in those deepstrata and withstand their pressure."

"Oh really?" Ned said, tipping me a wink.

"Oh really, and I can prove it to you with a few simple figures."

"Bosh!" Ned replied. "You can make figures do anything you want!"

"In business, Ned, but not in mathematics. Listen to me.Let's accept that the pressure of one atmosphere is representedby the pressure of a column of water thirty–two feet high.In reality, such a column of water wouldn't be quite so high becausehere we're dealing with salt water, which is denser than fresh water.Well then, when you dive under the waves, Ned, for every thirty–twofeet of water above you, your body is tolerating the pressureof one more atmosphere, in other words, one more kilogram pereach square centimeter on your body's surface. So it followsthat at 320 feet down, this pressure is equal to ten atmospheres,to 100 atmospheres at 3,200 feet, and to 1,000 atmospheres at32,000 feet, that is, at about two and a half vertical leagues down.Which is tantamount to saying that if you could reach such a depthin the ocean, each square centimeter on your body's surface wouldbe experiencing 1,000 kilograms of pressure. Now, my gallant Ned,do you know how many square centimeters you have on your bodily surface?"

"I haven't the foggiest notion, Professor Aronnax."

"About 17,000."

"As many as that?"

"Yes, and since the atmosphere's pressure actually weighs slightlymore than one kilogram per square centimeter, your 17,000 squarecentimeters are tolerating 17,568 kilograms at this very moment."

"Without my noticing it?"

"Without your noticing it. And if you aren't crushed by so much pressure,it's because the air penetrates the interior of your body withequal pressure. When the inside and outside pressures are inperfect balance, they neutralize each other and allow you to toleratethem without discomfort. But in the water it's another story."

"Yes, I see," Ned replied, growing more interested."Because the water surrounds me but doesn't penetrate me."

"Precisely, Ned. So at thirty–two feet beneath the surface of the sea,you'll undergo a pressure of 17,568 kilograms; at 320 feet, or ten timesgreater pressure, it's 175,680 kilograms; at 3,200 feet, or 100 timesgreater pressure, it's 1,756,800 kilograms; finally, at 32,000 feet,or 1,000 times greater pressure, it's 17,568,000 kilograms;in other words, you'd be squashed as flat as if you'd just beenyanked from between the plates of a hydraulic press!"

"Fire and brimstone!" Ned put in.

"All right then, my fine harpooner, if vertebrates several hundredmeters long and proportionate in bulk live at such depths,their surface areas make up millions of square centimeters,and the pressure they undergo must be assessed in billions of kilograms.Calculate, then, how much resistance of bone structure and strengthof constitution they'd need in order to withstand such pressures!"

"They'd need to be manufactured," Ned Land replied, "from sheet–ironplates eight inches thick, like ironclad frigates."

"Right, Ned, and then picture the damage such a mass could inflictif it were launched with the speed of an express train againsta ship's hull."

"Yes . . . indeed . . . maybe," the Canadian replied, staggered bythese figures but still not willing to give in.

"Well, have I convinced you?"

"You've convinced me of one thing, Mr. Naturalist. That deepin the sea, such animals would need to be just as strong as you say—if they exist."

"But if they don't exist, my stubborn harpooner, how do you explainthe accident that happened to theScotia?"

"It's maybe . . . ," Ned said, hesitating.

"Go on!"

"Because . . . it just couldn't be true!" the Canadian replied,unconsciously echoing a famous catchphrase of the scientist Arago.

But this reply proved nothing, other than how bullheaded the harpoonercould be. That day I pressed him no further. TheScotia'saccidentwas undeniable. Its hole was real enough that it had to be plugged up,and I don't think a hole's existence can be more emphatically proven.Now then, this hole didn't make itself, and since it hadn't resultedfrom underwater rocks or underwater machines, it must have beencaused by the perforating tool of some animal.

Now, for all the reasons put forward to this point, I believed thatthis animal was a member of the branchVertebrata, classMammalia,groupPisciforma, and finally, orderCetacea. As for the familyin which it would be placed (baleen whale, sperm whale, or dolphin),the genus to which it belonged, and the species in which it wouldfind its proper home, these questions had to be left for later.To answer them called for dissecting this unknown monster; to dissectit called for catching it; to catch it called for harpooning it—which was Ned Land's business; to harpoon it called for sighting it—which was the crew's business; and to sight it called for encountering it—which was a chancy business.