Free Captain Nemo: The Fantastic History of a Dark Genius by Kevin J. Anderson Page A

his departure, and he would become a man, more rounded than he could ever be if he spent his life on Ile Feydeau.
    Verne vowed never to regret his decision.   Even though Nemo’s father had been killed, and Verne was leaving his own father behind, the two young men could now become surrogate sons, children of Captain Grant.  
    He followed Nemo through the dockside markets, wandering down the rows of carts where women sold fresh shellfish.   Merchants tallied colorful bolts of silk from China, tusks of ivory from Africa, jaguar pelts from Central America, monkeys in cages, parrots with brilliant plumage, dried shark fins, drinking cups made of rhinoceros horn (guaranteed to shatter at the touch of poison).   Though they had little money, he and Nemo moved from stall to stall, eyeing the wares with fascination.   Verne kept his eyes open for something special to bring back for Caroline.
    He fingered the green ribbon tied at his wrist, which only last night had held back the lush hair of Caroline Aronnax.   Then Verne remembered the tinkling melodies she composed in secret; by the time he returned, perhaps Caroline could compose an entire symphony to celebrate their triumphs. . . .
     

    xii

     

    Though the driver was not a man to hurry his horses, he cracked his whip when Pierre Verne promised him a gold-piece bonus if they made it to Paimboeuf before the Coralie sailed.   The brougham rattled down the river road, bouncing on rocks and splashing through mud.  
    Any other time, Monsieur Verne would have complained about the rough ride and the lack of padding on the carriage seats.   But today, he didn’t care.
    Up ahead, a lad no older than Jules, wearing a floppy hat and carrying a willow frond three feet taller than himself, shooed seven sheep along the road.   The driver hollered while urging his horses ahead, and the lad scattered his sheep out of the way before they were run down.
    Six miles farther along, the path drove into steep highlands above the river estuary where the road was blocked by a cart whose wheel had broken.   An old farmer sat next to the sagging wagon, watching his mule munch on a sack of grain.   He seemed unconcerned that he had stalled all travel while waiting for someone to help him replace the wheel.
    The carriage driver leaned back and called to Monsieur Verne, “If you want to move ahead, we’ll have to help him change his wheel.”
    “All right.   Be quick about it,” Pierre said impatiently.
    The wagon owner and his mule appeared to be in no hurry, but Pierre scolded both drivers until they set to the task.   So great was Pierre’s urgency that even he, dressed in fine business clothes, knelt in the mud and helped use a lever and boulders to lift the cart and replace the wheel.   Then, before the farmer could casually pull in front of the brougham, Pierre shouted for the driver to hurry.   The horses got up to a gallop again, and the carriage thundered past the rickety cart.  
    The sun lowered toward the horizon, spilling golden rays in a spectacular Atlantic sunset.   Other carts and horses and wagons began to fill the road as they approached Paimboeuf.   Monsieur Verne saw dozens of ships on the docks.   He didn’t know how he would ever find the Coralie.   It might take an hour to talk to the harbormasters and study docking records -- and by that time the ship would have sailed with the outgoing tide.  
    Instead, he instructed the driver to take the brougham down to the quays.   The impatient attorney leaned out the window, questioning sailors.   “Where’s the Coralie ?”   He asked seven times until finally he said, “She’s about to sail.   Which one is the Coralie ?”
    A young seaman with tanned skin and a wispy beard sat on a crate munching an apple.   He looked up, unconcerned with Monsieur Verne’s urgency, and gestured down the docks.   “Fourth one.   You’d better hurry.   They’re casting off.”
    The driver whipped his horses.