During the nights of March 13 and 14, the Nautilus continued moving south.
I had expected that once we reached the area near Cape Horn, Captain Nemo would turn the ship westward and cross the Pacific Ocean, continuing his journey around the world.
But he did not.
Instead, he kept heading farther into the southern seas.
Where was he going?
To the South Pole?
Such a journey seemed impossible, almost insane.
I began to think that Ned Land’s fears about the Captain’s boldness might be justified.
For some time, the Canadian had stopped talking about escaping.
He had become quieter and more distant, almost completely silent.
I could see that this endless imprisonment was becoming unbearable for him.
A deep anger was growing inside him.
Whenever he met Captain Nemo, his eyes flashed with hidden rage.
I feared that his violent nature might one day push him into doing something reckless.
On March 14, Conseil and Ned Land came to my cabin.
I looked at them with curiosity.
“What brings you here?” I asked.
“I have a simple question for you, sir,” Ned replied.
“Go ahead, Ned.”
“How many men do you think are on board the Nautilus?”
“I really cannot say, my friend.”
“I don’t think this ship needs a large crew to operate.”
“Probably not. Under normal circumstances, ten men would be more than enough.”
“Then why are there more than that?”
I looked carefully at Ned Land.
I immediately understood what he was thinking.
“Because,” I said, “if my understanding of Captain Nemo’s life is correct, the Nautilus is not only a submarine. It is also a refuge for people who, like its commander, have cut themselves off from the world above.”
“Perhaps,” said Conseil.
“But whatever the truth is, the Nautilus can only hold a limited number of people. Could you estimate the maximum number, sir?”
“How would I do that, Conseil?”
“By calculation. You know the size of the vessel. Therefore, you know approximately how much air it contains. If we know how much air a person consumes, and compare that with the fact that the Nautilus must rise to the surface every twenty-four hours, perhaps we can discover how many people are aboard.”
Before Conseil finished speaking, I understood his idea.
“I see what you mean,” I said. “But although the calculation is simple, the result can only be approximate.”
“That does not matter,” said Ned impatiently.
“Very well. Let us calculate.”
“In one hour, a person uses the oxygen contained in about twenty gallons of air. In twenty-four hours, that means 480 gallons.”
“Exactly,” said Conseil.
“The Nautilus has a capacity of about 1,500 tons. Since one ton equals about 200 gallons, the vessel contains around 300,000 gallons of air.”
I paused.
“Now, divide 300,000 by 480.”
“And the result?” asked Conseil.
“Six hundred and twenty-five.”
“Meaning that, theoretically, the air inside the Nautilus could support 625 men for twenty-four hours.”
“Six hundred and twenty-five!” repeated Ned.
“But remember, the passengers, sailors, and officers together do not even make up one-tenth of that number.”
“Still far too many for only three prisoners,” Conseil murmured.
Ned shook his head.
He ran his hand across his forehead, then left without saying another word.
“May I make one observation, sir?” Conseil said.
“Of course.”
“Poor Ned wants everything that he cannot have. His old life is always in his thoughts. Everything we are forbidden to do reminds him of what he has lost.”
He sighed.
“We must understand him. What does he have here? Nothing. He is not a scholar like you, sir, and he does not enjoy the wonders of the ocean as we do. He would risk anything just to sit once again in a tavern in his own country.”
Conseil was right.
For a man like Ned Land, who had always lived freely and actively, life aboard the Nautilus must have seemed like a prison.
There were few events that could awaken his old spirit.
But that day, something happened that brought back the excitement of his days as a harpooner.
At around eleven in the morning, while the Nautilus was sailing on the surface, we encountered a group of whales.
I was not surprised.
These magnificent creatures had been hunted almost to extinction in many places and had retreated toward the colder southern waters.
We were sitting on the platform.
The sea was calm.
The southern autumn had given us several beautiful days.
Suddenly, Ned Land pointed toward the eastern horizon.
A whale had appeared.
Far away, about five miles from the Nautilus, we could see its dark back rising and sinking with the waves.
“Ah!” cried Ned.
“If I were aboard a whaling ship right now, this sight would make me very happy.”
He stared at the creature.
“It is a huge one. Look at the power of its blow! See how it throws columns of air and steam into the sky!”
He clenched his fists.
“Why must I be trapped inside these steel walls?”
“Ned,” I said, “have you really not forgotten your old profession?”
“Can a whale hunter ever forget his trade, sir?” he replied.
“Can he forget the thrill of the chase?”
“You have never hunted whales in these waters, Ned?”
“Never. I only hunted in the northern seas, especially around the Bering Strait and Davis Strait.”
“Then you have never seen the whales of the southern oceans. Until now, you have hunted the Greenland whale.”
He nodded.
“That species does not cross the warm waters near the equator. Different whales belong to different regions and usually remain there.”
“So if a whale traveled from the Bering Strait to Davis Strait, there would have to be a passage connecting those seas, either around America or Asia.”
“Exactly.”
“Then since I have never hunted here, I do not know these whales.”
“I already told you, Ned.”
“Then I have even more reason to meet them.”
“Look!” Ned shouted.
“They are coming closer!”
His eyes burned with excitement.
“They know I cannot reach them!”
He stamped his feet.
His hand moved as if he were holding an invisible harpoon.
“Are these whales as large as those in the northern seas?” he asked.
“Almost.”
“I have seen whales nearly one hundred feet long, sir. Some people even say the whales near the Aleutian Islands can reach one hundred and fifty feet.”
“That sounds exaggerated. These are probably baleen whales with dorsal fins. Like cachalots, they are usually smaller than the Greenland whale.”
“Look!” Ned cried.
“They are coming closer. They are almost beside the Nautilus.”
Then he returned to another thought.
“You mentioned cachalots earlier. I have heard stories of enormous ones.”
“Yes.”
“They say some are so large that they cover themselves with seaweed and people mistake them for islands.”
“And then people land on them,” added Conseil.
“They build fires, set up camps—”
“And construct houses,” Conseil joked.
“Yes, laugh if you want,” said Ned. “Then one day the creature dives, carrying everyone into the sea.”
“That sounds like the story of Sinbad the Sailor,” I said, laughing.
“Look!” Ned suddenly shouted.
“There is not one whale. There are ten—twenty!”
He stared helplessly.
“It is an entire herd!”
“And I cannot do anything!”
“My hands and feet are tied!”
“But Ned,” said Conseil, “why do you not ask Captain Nemo for permission to hunt them?”
Before Conseil finished speaking, Ned disappeared through the hatch.
A few minutes later, he returned with Captain Nemo.
The Captain watched the whales swimming about a mile from the Nautilus.
“They are southern whales,” he said.
“A single one of them represents the fortune of an entire whaling fleet.”
“Well, Captain,” asked Ned, “may I not hunt them? Even if only to remind myself of my old profession?”
“And for what reason?” replied Nemo.
“To kill them?”
“We have no use for whale oil aboard the Nautilus.”
“But in the Red Sea, you allowed us to hunt the dugong.”
“That was different. We needed fresh meat for my crew.”
The Captain looked toward the whales.
“Here, killing would serve no purpose except killing itself.”
He spoke calmly.
“I know mankind considers such destruction a privilege, but I do not approve of this cruel practice.”
“These southern whales, like the Greenland whales, are peaceful creatures. Your hunters have already emptied parts of Baffin Bay of them and are destroying an entire species.”
“Leave them alone.”
“They already have enough enemies—cachalots, swordfish, and sawfish—without adding humans.”
Captain Nemo was right.
The careless greed of hunters would one day threaten the survival of the great whales.
Ned Land whistled quietly, shoved his hands into his pockets, and turned away.
But Captain Nemo continued watching the ocean.
“I was right when I said whales have enough natural enemies without mankind.”
He pointed into the distance.
“Do you see those dark shapes about eight miles away, M. Aronnax?”
“Yes, Captain.”
“They are cachalots.”
“Dangerous creatures. I have seen them travel in groups of two or three hundred.”
He frowned.
“They are cruel and destructive animals. If any creatures deserve to disappear, it would be them.”
Ned immediately turned around.
“Well, Captain,” he said, “there is still time to save the whales.”
“It is unnecessary to risk yourself, Professor,” Nemo replied.
“The Nautilus will deal with them.”
He touched the steel hull.
“It has a powerful metal spur, just as effective as Master Land’s harpoon.”
Ned could not hide his disbelief.
Attack whales with a ship’s steel horn?
Who had ever heard of such a thing?
“Wait, M. Aronnax,” said Captain Nemo.
“You are about to witness something you have never seen before.”
He looked toward the approaching cachalots.
“We have no sympathy for these violent creatures. They are nothing but mouths and teeth.”
And that description was perfect.
The cachalot was a terrifying animal.
Sometimes more than seventy-five feet long, it had a massive head that occupied nearly one-third of its body.
Unlike harmless baleen whales, it possessed twenty-five enormous teeth, each about eight inches long and weighing nearly two pounds.
Inside its huge head were cavities filled with a valuable substance called spermaceti.
The animal was strangely shaped, almost like a giant tadpole.
Its left side was poorly developed, and it could see mainly with its right eye.
The group of cachalots was now approaching rapidly.
They had noticed the whales and were preparing to attack.
The result seemed obvious.
The cachalots were stronger, better equipped for fighting, and able to remain underwater much longer.
The whales had almost no chance.
There was only one thing left to do.
Help them.
The Nautilus disappeared beneath the waves.
Conseil, Ned, and I took our places at the windows of the saloon.
Captain Nemo entered the pilot’s cabin.
He prepared the submarine for battle.
Soon, I felt the propeller speed increase.
The Nautilus rushed forward.
The battle had already begun when we arrived.
At first, the cachalots showed no fear of this strange new enemy.
But they soon discovered the danger.
What a battle!
The Nautilus became a giant harpoon controlled by Captain Nemo.
It charged into the massive bodies of the cachalots, cutting through them completely.
The submarine ignored the violent blows from their tails.
One cachalot fell.
Then the Nautilus attacked another.
It turned sharply, chased them beneath the waves, followed them back to the surface, struck from every direction, and pierced them with its terrible steel spur.
The ocean became a battlefield.
The peaceful sea was filled with roaring waves, violent splashes, and the angry cries of wounded creatures.
For an entire hour, the destruction continued.
The cachalots could not escape.
Several times, groups of ten or twelve tried to crush the Nautilus with their combined weight.
Through the windows, we saw their enormous mouths and rows of terrifying teeth.
Ned Land shouted curses at them.
They clung to the submarine like hunting dogs attacking a wild animal.
But the Nautilus continued moving forward.
It carried them aside, pushed through them, and ignored their enormous strength.
Finally, the cachalots scattered.
The sea became quiet again.
The Nautilus rose toward the surface.
When the hatch opened, we hurried onto the platform.
The ocean was covered with the bodies of dead creatures.
The scene looked as if a powerful explosion had torn the entire ocean apart.
Huge bodies floated around us.
Their backs were blue-gray, their undersides white, and their skin covered with enormous bumps.
A few frightened cachalots escaped toward the horizon.
For miles, the sea was stained red.
The Nautilus floated in a sea of blood.
Captain Nemo joined us.
“Well, Master Land?” he asked.
The Canadian looked disturbed.
“It is certainly a terrible sight.”
He paused.
“But I am not a butcher.”
“I am a hunter.”
“And what I have just seen is slaughter.”
“It was the destruction of dangerous creatures,” replied Nemo.
“The Nautilus is not a butcher’s knife.”
“I prefer my harpoon,” said Ned.
“Everyone has his own methods,” answered the Captain.
I worried that Ned might lose control.
But his anger disappeared when he noticed another whale nearby.
It had not escaped the cachalots’ attack.
I recognized it as a southern whale because of its completely black, flat head.
It was lying on its side.
Its body was covered with wounds.
A young whale still hung from its damaged fin, unable to escape.
Its open mouth moved with the waves, making a sound like water breaking on a shore.
Captain Nemo guided the Nautilus beside the dead whale.
Two sailors climbed onto its body.
To my surprise, they began collecting the milk from its breasts.
There were several tons of it.
The Captain offered me a cup.
The milk was still warm.
At first, I hesitated.
But Nemo assured me it was excellent and almost impossible to distinguish from cow’s milk.
I tasted it.
He was right.
It was a valuable resource.
Later, it could be turned into butter or cheese and provide a pleasant change from our usual food.
From that day onward, I noticed with concern that Ned Land’s hostility toward Captain Nemo continued to grow.
I decided that I must watch the Canadian’s actions carefully.