Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius Read Online Free Page B

hard on Verne’s arm.   “Come on.”   Seeing the furious determination on his flushed face, the crowd parted as Nemo elbowed his way out, dragging Jules Verne behind him.   The two slipped and slid down a muddy bank beneath one of the docks to where they had stored the bladder helmet, breathing tubes, and reeds.
    “I have to go out there.   If my father’s under water, maybe the room was sealed.   He may still have air.”   Seeing Nemo cling to hope and desperation, Verne didn’t voice his doubts.
    Nemo dug muddy rocks from the riverbank and thrust them into his pockets for weight while Verne connected the breathing reeds.   Nemo secured his dagger, tugged the bladder over his head, and adjusted the viewing glass so he could see.   “Hurry, Jules!”
    Not far away, the Cynthia smoldered and groaned.   Its timbers cracked like thunder as it sank.   The crowd continued to gather, both horrified and curious.   Firemen threw water on the flames, but they knew the unchristened ship was doomed, and no one could do anything about it.
    Before Verne finished attaching three reeds to Nemo’s helmet, the dark-haired young man had cinched the bladder against his neck.   He strode into the river without hesitation, submerging himself.   Verne hurried, but the cold pitch did not seal well.   He grabbed another reed and tried to attach it, rather than yelling for his friend to wait.   Nemo did not dare move any slower.
    Fighting the current’s resistance, Nemo pushed toward the roiling disaster, picturing his father’s crisis, his panic, his need for rescue.   The rocks in his pockets held him to the soft riverbottom.   Bubbles and orange reflections of flame flickered from the wreckage.
    Scarecrowish bodies drifted about.   One nudged him.   He pushed the corpse away, relieved that it wasn’t his father.   Nemo didn’t remember the man’s name, but thought he recognized him: someone who’d played a squeezebox, squeaking out impromptu melodies while the sailors danced and pounded their heels on the deckboards. . . .
    Nemo didn’t have time to mourn, thinking of only one thing.   He pushed forward, trying to breathe against the growing ache and dread in his chest, trying not to sob as he saw the stern of the Cynthia completely submerged, the poop deck under water.   Through filtered light from above, he discerned cracked boards and gaping holes in the crew chambers.
    His faceplate steamed up, and a few dribbles of water came through the breathing tube.   He hoped Verne could keep up the pace on the bank, that the connected reeds would remain sealed together.   His heart pounded, his lungs felt hot.   He struggled forward through the muck, but didn’t for a moment consider turning back.
    Nemo struggled across the splintered stumps of the Cynthia ’s masts.   The logs themselves floated on the surface of the Loire , while rigging pulleys and tackle dangled beneath like a giant spider’s web.   Fish swam about like underwater spectators in a drama they could not understand.
    As he made his way to the lower deck aft, Nemo passed ornately paneled chambers.   Open doors flopped in the current, showing walls of exotic wood embellished with gold leaf for first-class passengers; now only river fish would enjoy the lavish accommodations.   He found another body wedged in a door jamb, but saw the man’s wooden peg-leg and dismissed him . . . not the person he sought.   He wished he could call out.
    Nemo drew his knife and tugged against the restraining stiffness of the long airtube that trailed behind him.   He wheezed and sucked in a deep breath, angry at fate.   He’d never intended to go this far.   He couldn’t get enough oxygen, but even dizzy as he was, he continued.   His father might be dying down here.
    Around him, muffled booming and rumbling sounds surged through the water as the Cynthia continued her death throes.
    A few chambers remained sealed, their doors shut.   Nemo clung to