Chapter Chapter 38 · ACCIDENT OR INCIDENT?

ENT OR INCIDENT?

The next day, the 22nd of March, at six in the morning, preparations

for departure were begun. The last gleams of twilight were melting into

night. The cold was great, the constellations shone with wonderful

intensity. In the zenith glittered that wondrous Southern Cross—the

polar bear of Antarctic regions. The thermometer showed 12 below zero,

and when the wind freshened it was most biting. Flakes of ice increased

on the open water. The sea seemed everywhere alike. Numerous blackish

patches spread on the surface, showing the formation of fresh ice.

Evidently the southern basin, frozen during the six winter months, was

absolutely inaccessible. What became of the whales in that time?

Doubtless they went beneath the icebergs, seeking more practicable

seas. As to the seals and morses, accustomed to live in a hard climate,

they remained on these icy shores. These creatures have the instinct to

break holes in the ice-field and to keep them open. To these holes they

come for breath; when the birds, driven away by the cold, have

emigrated to the north, these sea mammals remain sole masters of the

polar continent. But the reservoirs were filling with water, and the

_Nautilus_ was slowly descending. At 1,000 feet deep it stopped; its

screw beat the waves, and it advanced straight towards the north at a

speed of fifteen miles an hour. Towards night it was already floating

under the immense body of the iceberg. At three in the morning I was

awakened by a violent shock. I sat up in my bed and listened in the

darkness, when I was thrown into the middle of the room. The

_Nautilus_, after having struck, had rebounded violently. I groped

along the partition, and by the staircase to the saloon, which was lit

by the luminous ceiling. The furniture was upset. Fortunately the

windows were firmly set, and had held fast. The pictures on the

starboard side, from being no longer vertical, were clinging to the

paper, whilst those of the port side were hanging at least a foot from

the wall. The _Nautilus_ was lying on its starboard side perfectly

motionless. I heard footsteps, and a confusion of voices; but Captain

Nemo did not appear. As I was leaving the saloon, Ned Land and Conseil

entered.

“What is the matter?” said I, at once.

“I came to ask you, sir,” replied Conseil.

“Confound it!” exclaimed the Canadian, “I know well enough! The

_Nautilus_ has struck; and, judging by the way she lies, I do not think

she will right herself as she did the first time in Torres Straits.”

“But,” I asked, “has she at least come to the surface of the sea?”

“We do not know,” said Conseil.

“It is easy to decide,” I answered. I consulted the manometer. To my

great surprise, it showed a depth of more than 180 fathoms. “What does

that mean?” I exclaimed.

“We must ask Captain Nemo,” said Conseil.

“But where shall we find him?” said Ned Land.

“Follow me,” said I, to my companions.

We left the saloon. There was no one in the library. At the centre

staircase, by the berths of the ship’s crew, there was no one. I

thought that Captain Nemo must be in the pilot’s cage. It was best to

wait. We all returned to the saloon. For twenty minutes we remained

thus, trying to hear the slightest noise which might be made on board

the _Nautilus_, when Captain Nemo entered. He seemed not to see us; his

face, generally so impassive, showed signs of uneasiness. He watched

the compass silently, then the manometer; and, going to the

planisphere, placed his finger on a spot representing the southern

seas. I would not interrupt him; but, some minutes later, when he

turned towards me, I said, using one of his own expressions in the

Torres Straits:

“An incident, Captain?”

“No, sir; an accident this time.”

“Serious?”

“Perhaps.”

“Is the danger immediate?”

“No.”

“The _Nautilus_ has stranded?”

“Yes.”

“And this has happened—how?”

“From a caprice of nature, not from the ignorance of man. Not a mistake

has been made in the working. But we cannot prevent equilibrium from

producing its effects. We may brave human laws, but we cannot resist

natural ones.”

Captain Nemo had chosen a strange moment for uttering this

philosophical reflection. On the whole, his answer helped me little.

“May I ask, sir, the cause of this accident?”

“An enormous block of ice, a whole mountain, has turned over,” he

replied. “When icebergs are undermined at their base by warmer water or

reiterated shocks their centre of gravity rises, and the whole thing

turns over. This is what has happened; one of these blocks, as it fell,

struck the _Nautilus_, then, gliding under its hull, raised it with

irresistible force, bringing it into beds which are not so thick, where

it is lying on its side.”

“But can we not get the _Nautilus_ off by emptying its reservoirs, that

it might regain its equilibrium?”

“That, sir, is being done at this moment. You can hear the pump

working. Look at the needle of the manometer; it shows that the

_Nautilus_ is rising, but the block of ice is floating with it; and,

until some obstacle stops its ascending motion, our position cannot be

altered.”

Indeed, the _Nautilus_ still held the same position to starboard;

doubtless it would right itself when the block stopped. But at this

moment who knows if we may not be frightfully crushed between the two

glassy surfaces? I reflected on all the consequences of our position.

Captain Nemo never took his eyes off the manometer. Since the fall of

the iceberg, the _Nautilus_ had risen about a hundred and fifty feet,

but it still made the same angle with the perpendicular. Suddenly a

slight movement was felt in the hold. Evidently it was righting a

little. Things hanging in the saloon were sensibly returning to their

normal position. The partitions were nearing the upright. No one spoke.

With beating hearts we watched and felt the straightening. The boards

became horizontal under our feet. Ten minutes passed.

“At last we have righted!” I exclaimed.

“Yes,” said Captain Nemo, going to the door of the saloon.

“But are we floating?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he replied; “since the reservoirs are not empty; and, when

empty, the _Nautilus_ must rise to the surface of the sea.”

We were in open sea; but at a distance of about ten yards, on either

side of the _Nautilus_, rose a dazzling wall of ice. Above and beneath

the same wall. Above, because the lower surface of the iceberg

stretched over us like an immense ceiling. Beneath, because the

overturned block, having slid by degrees, had found a resting-place on

the lateral walls, which kept it in that position. The _Nautilus_ was

really imprisoned in a perfect tunnel of ice more than twenty yards in

breadth, filled with quiet water. It was easy to get out of it by going

either forward or backward, and then make a free passage under the

iceberg, some hundreds of yards deeper. The luminous ceiling had been

extinguished, but the saloon was still resplendent with intense light.

It was the powerful reflection from the glass partition sent violently

back to the sheets of the lantern. I cannot describe the effect of the

voltaic rays upon the great blocks so capriciously cut; upon every

angle, every ridge, every facet was thrown a different light, according

to the nature of the veins running through the ice; a dazzling mine of

gems, particularly of sapphires, their blue rays crossing with the

green of the emerald. Here and there were opal shades of wonderful

softness, running through bright spots like diamonds of fire, the

brilliancy of which the eye could not bear. The power of the lantern

seemed increased a hundredfold, like a lamp through the lenticular

plates of a first-class lighthouse.

“How beautiful! how beautiful!” cried Conseil.

“Yes,” I said, “it is a wonderful sight. Is it not, Ned?”

“Yes, confound it! Yes,” answered Ned Land, “it is superb! I am mad at

being obliged to admit it. No one has ever seen anything like it; but

the sight may cost us dear. And, if I must say all, I think we are

seeing here things which God never intended man to see.”

Ned was right, it was too beautiful. Suddenly a cry from Conseil made

me turn.

“What is it?” I asked.

“Shut your eyes, sir! Do not look, sir!” Saying which, Conseil clapped

his hands over his eyes.

“But what is the matter, my boy?”

“I am dazzled, blinded.”

My eyes turned involuntarily towards the glass, but I could not stand

the fire which seemed to devour them. I understood what had happened.

The _Nautilus_ had put on full speed. All the quiet lustre of the

ice-walls was at once changed into flashes of lightning. The fire from

these myriads of diamonds was blinding. It required some time to calm

our troubled looks. At last the hands were taken down.

“Faith, I should never have believed it,” said Conseil.

It was then five in the morning; and at that moment a shock was felt at

the bows of the _Nautilus_. I knew that its spur had struck a block of

ice. It must have been a false manœuvre, for this submarine tunnel,

obstructed by blocks, was not very easy navigation. I thought that

Captain Nemo, by changing his course, would either turn these obstacles

or else follow the windings of the tunnel. In any case, the road before

us could not be entirely blocked. But, contrary to my expectations, the

_Nautilus_ took a decided retrograde motion.

“We are going backwards?” said Conseil.

“Yes,” I replied. “This end of the tunnel can have no egress.”

“And then?”

“Then,” said I, “the working is easy. We must go back again, and go out

at the southern opening. That is all.”

In speaking thus, I wished to appear more confident than I really was.

But the retrograde motion of the _Nautilus_ was increasing; and,

reversing the screw, it carried us at great speed.

“It will be a hindrance,” said Ned.

“What does it matter, some hours more or less, provided we get out at

last?”

“Yes,” repeated Ned Land, “provided we do get out at last!”

For a short time I walked from the saloon to the library. My companions

were silent. I soon threw myself on an ottoman, and took a book, which

my eyes overran mechanically. A quarter of an hour after, Conseil,

approaching me, said, “Is what you are reading very interesting, sir?”

“Very interesting!” I replied.

“I should think so, sir. It is your own book you are reading.”

“My book?”

And indeed I was holding in my hand the work on the Great Submarine

Depths. I did not even dream of it. I closed the book and returned to

my walk. Ned and Conseil rose to go.

“Stay here, my friends,” said I, detaining them. “Let us remain

together until we are out of this block.”

“As you please, sir,” Conseil replied.

Some hours passed. I often looked at the instruments hanging from the

partition. The manometer showed that the _Nautilus_ kept at a constant

depth of more than three hundred yards; the compass still pointed to

south; the log indicated a speed of twenty miles an hour, which, in

such a cramped space, was very great. But Captain Nemo knew that he

could not hasten too much, and that minutes were worth ages to us. At

twenty-five minutes past eight a second shock took place, this time

from behind. I turned pale. My companions were close by my side. I

seized Conseil’s hand. Our looks expressed our feelings better than

words. At this moment the Captain entered the saloon. I went up to him.

“Our course is barred southward?” I asked.

“Yes, sir. The iceberg has shifted and closed every outlet.”

“We are blocked up then?”

“Yes.”

CHAPT