Twenty Trillion Leagues Under the Sea (10 page)

The captain’s lined face clenched into its more habitual expression of displeasure. ‘What’s this babyishness? The vanes, sailor! You must address the vanes.’

‘Please sir,’ said Avocat. He was quivering with fear now, shaking droplets of water onto the floor. The pleading expression in his eyes gave his round face a childlike quality. ‘Please don’t send me out.’

‘Nonsense!’ barked Cloche.

‘I beg of you, sir,’ said Avocat, stepping towards his Captain, and holding his hands out.

De Chante spoke up. ‘I’ll go, Captain. It’s my turn anyway.’

‘No,’ said the captain. ‘Avocat is already suited-up. I don’t want to waste more time. And above all, I will not nurture
cowardice
amongst my crew!’

The mention of cowardice had the effect of a slap to the face. Avocat straightened up and took a step backwards.

‘Captain Cloche,’ said Lebret, attempting a mollifying tone.

But the captain’s temper – never a moderate or even thing – had compressed itself into the hardest mode of fury. Like a great mass of snow poised on a mountain flank, finally shaken free by a tremor, his rage came thundering down upon his crewman.

‘Will
you go back in the water, sailor?’ he shouted, his hand groping for his pistol. In his anger he omitted to unbutton the holster, so his elderly fingers fumbled fruitlessly at the leather flap. Without giving Avocat time to reply, he continued. ‘You can join your fellow mutineer in the brig. Boucher! Boucher!’

‘Captain!’

‘Take him away. And you—’ he turned on Lebret. ‘Keep your collaborationist chatter to yourself, sir, or I’ll have you locked in the brig as well.’

The mood of elation had evaporated. Boucher was holding the open wine bottle by its neck. He passed it across to Castor, put
his hand on Avocat’s shoulder, and followed him out of the mess, clambering awkwardly up the still-sloping corridor.

‘You, sailor,’ the captain spluttered, pointing at de Chante. ‘Whatever your name is. Go along too. Wring that miserable coward out of the wetsuit, and put it on yourself. Your orders: to dive for’ard, and do what you can to unjam the front vanes.’

De Chante had gone very white. ‘No, sir,’ he said.

Cloche’s skin went redder, throwing his white beard into remarkable contrast. He stared hard at de Chante, then turned his head to look down at his flank. With deliberation he coordinated his fingers to unbutton the flap.

‘No?’

‘Not on these terms, sir.’

‘On these …
terms
?’

‘Captain, I had already offered to take Avocat’s place.’ De Chante spoke rapidly. ‘There was no need to send him to the brig. He is no coward, Captain. He is my friend, and calling him a coward is unconscionable. To call a Frenchman such a thing is to—’

The captain’s pistol was directly in de Chante’s face. ‘Another word,’ hissed Cloche, ‘and I shall make an example of you.’

Nobody spoke.

‘I repeat my order,’ said Cloche. ‘You will then either follow it, or die – here and now. Do you understand?’

De Chante nodded slowly.

‘Very well. Boucher – the celebrations are … Boucher? Boucher! Where
is
my lieutenant?’

‘He is locking up Avocat,’ said Lebret in a mild voice.

Cloche glared at him. ‘These celebrations have proved
premature
,’ he declared. ‘Pannier will return these bottles of wine to the store – Pannier? Pannier! And meanwhile, de, de, this sailor here will venture outside the
Plongeur
and, and, and restore control to the forward vanes. And – Pannier!’ he bellowed. ‘Where
is
the man?’

The others in the mess swapped uncertain glances. Billiard-Fanon evidently considered it his duty to inform the captain.

‘Captain, I regret to inform you—’

‘What?’

‘Pannier is,’ said the ensign, nervously. ‘Pannier is—’

‘Drunk,’ said Lebret, in a voice so loud that Billiard-Fanon jumped, like a man pinched. ‘Dead drunk, in fact. By which I mean insensible.’

For a moment nothing happened. The time felt weirdly suspended. Cloche glared at Lebret. Everybody waited to see what would happen next.

Then the captain took in a deep breath, held it, and released it. Slowly he replaced his pistol in its holster. ‘The crew of the
Plongeur
,’ he said, speaking distinctly, but directing his words into the space between Lebret and Jhutti. ‘The crew of the
Plongeur
has disgraced me. The crew has disgraced France. With God’s help and my leadership we
shall
return to Saint-Nazaire. And when we do, I shall report you all to the authorities for dishonourable discharge from the French navy, and imprisonment or execution depending on the degree of the mutiny. Messieurs—’ He swivelled his gaze to the two Punjabi scientists, ‘—are not sworn-in members of the Navy of France, and I exclude you from my disapprobation. Nevertheless, I expect you to respect my authority and follow my orders.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I am going to my cabin,’ he announced. Then, slowly, he pulled his way along the sloping floor of the bridge, and up the corridor.

For long minutes, nobody spoke. It was clear that some profound violence had been enacted upon the structures of authority in the submarine. Something had broken.

De Chante sat down. ‘The captain has gone mad,’ he breathed.

‘Sailor!’ snapped Billiard-Fanon. ‘Be quiet! To say such a thing is tantamount to mutiny.’

‘Even if it’s
true
?’ retorted the white-faced de Chante. He pulled a cigarette case from his shirt pocket, an action that made plain how much his hand was trembling.

‘You have your orders, sailor,’ Billiard-Fanon said. But his voice lacked certainty.

Boucher came half-stepping, half-tumbling down the slope and into the bridge. He was carrying the sodden wetsuit, draped over
one arm. He saw at once that something was wrong. ‘Where’s the captain?’ he asked.

‘The captain has retired to his cabin,’ replied Billiard-Fanon.

‘Things flip-flopped rather suddenly,’ drawled Lebret, ‘in terms of the – shall we say, the captain’s mood.’

‘He … he left us with orders,’ Billiard-Fanon insisted.

‘Well, follow them!’ said Boucher. But the expression on Billiard-Fanon’s face clearly disconcerted him. ‘I mean – what
were
the orders?’

‘He said de Chante was to go out, try to fix the vanes,’ said Billiard-Fanon.

‘Yes, I heard that. Avocat has removed the suit – here it is …’

‘The captain
also
said,’ Lebret interrupted him, ‘that the entire crew, save only the two Indians, can expect to be court-martialled when we return to Saint-Nazaire.’.

‘He said that?’ returned Boucher, his cigar-shaped eyebrows floating up his brow.

‘It was unclear whether his words applied to me or not,’ Lebret added. ‘I presume they did.’

‘He has lost his mind,’ said de Chante, emboldened by the uncertain mood of the group.

‘Sailor – I shan’t warn you again,’ said Billiard-Fanon. ‘Keep your tongue behind the fence of your teeth.’

‘The fact that the captain believes we
can
return to Saint-Nazaire,’ said Lebret, ‘rather supports de Chante’s assessment of his mental state.’

Boucher rubbed his face. ‘What
has
happened here? Moments ago the entire crew was cheering with delight – and now we’re in despair? Come! The captain is right – we
can
return home. Of course we can. More than that – we will! Let’s—let’s.’ He looked around; for he was unused to and uncomfortable with, command. ‘Let us try refloating the tanks, and … no, wait. We must first free up the vanes. De Chante – into your suit, please!’

With a sigh, de Chante took hold of the suit, and clambered down the ladder to the airlock chamber. Billiard-Fanon went after him. ‘I’ll help him into his, into his …’ And before he pulled
himself through the doorway he added. ‘Monsieur Lebret, and Monsieur Indian – would you be so kind as to carry Pannier through to his cabin. I suppose we must, ah,
remove him
from the sources of his temptation.’

8

THE CRACK

The two men manhandled the cook’s unconscious body out of the kitchen with some difficulty. Lugging him along the corridor involved banging his flopping limbs awkwardly against the walls and the floor. Eventually they bundled him into his cabin, and shut the door on him.

As they returned, Lebret noted. ‘Soon enough de Chante will sort out the vanes and we’ll have a more-or-less functioning submarine. It’s just a question of waiting. I think I shall have some coffee. Would you join me?’

‘By all means.’

They made their way together into the empty mess hall. A steel urn was set into a rotating bracket in the wall. From this, Lebret poured coffee into two steel mugs. The fluid sloshed weirdly; he fitted lids over the top of each before handing one to Jhutti.

‘I wonder if you agree with me,’ Lebret said, looking slyly at the engineer, ‘that we ought to
explore
this new territory? Wherever we are, whatever this place is. I mean of course – once the vessel is fully repaired. Wouldn’t it be a foolishness simply to flee back to France. We must go a little deeper yet, surely! Who knows what’s down there.’

Jhutti did not answer this directly. Instead, seating himself opposite Lebret, he asked, ‘So, M’sieur. Tell me truly. Do
you
think the diver experienced an actual whirlpool current?’

Lebret shook his head slowly. ‘As to that – your compatriot’s points
seemed
irrefutable. Yet, isn’t it more likely that Monsieur
Avocat suffered a momentary psychological breakdown? Some terror gripped his muscles and he found himself unable to swim out?’

‘I suppose that sounds more plausible,’ agreed Jhutti. ‘Still, there must surely
be
whirlpools and strange currents within your infinite ocean? If that is truly where we are.’

‘I suppose so – as to the currents, I mean.’

‘Tell me, my friend. Do you
actually
believe,’ Jhutti pressed, ‘that we have slipped from our natural dimension into such a place?’

‘We passed through something,’ said Lebret. ‘That is one thing of which we can be sure. And so we have travelled
into
something.’

‘But through what did we pass?’

For some moments it appeared that Lebret was not going to answer. Then he breathed deeply. ‘I shall tell you what I suspect, my friend. There is a poem,’ he said, his voice slipping down a semitone. ‘A poem by the Irish Romantic poet, Alfred De Neeson. It is called “The Crack”.’

In a singsong voice he recited the English words:

Below the thunders of the upper deep;

Far, far beneath in the abysmal sea,

Its ancient, dreamless, uninvaded sleep,

The Crack, it sleepeth: faintest sunlights flee

About its shadowy sides; above it swell

Huge sponges of millennial growth and height;

And far away into the sickly light,

From many a wondrous grot and secret cell

Unnumbered and enormous polypi

Winnow with giant arms the slumbering green.

There hath it lain for ages and will lie

Swallowing huge sea-worms in its sleep,

Until the latter fire shall heat the deep;

Then once by man and angels to be seen,

Roaring he shall swallow all the seas, and die.

‘My English,’ said Jhutti, in Punjabi, ‘is not wholly competent to grasp such flowery turns. This is a poem about … ?’

‘It is a hymn, a sonnet, a lyric!’ said Lebret, with more feeling than precision. ‘The Vikings possess an ancient myth, the oldest amongst their many legends. It is that the world was born from the chasm – the crack, as Neeson calls it here – and that at the end of time it is this crack that will swallow the world. It is a mighty valley at the bottom of the deepest ocean, but unlike other ocean trenches it descends forever – without end. There is an analogue in Greek mythology – the
Chasm
is the prison in which the rebellious Titans are imprisoned.’