Part 1 · Chapter 12Some Figures

A moment later, we were settled on a comfy couch in the main room, just chilling and smoking. The Captain showed me a drawing that showed the plan, cutaway view, and overall design of the Nautilus. Then he started explaining, saying: -

"Here, M. Aronnax, are the exact measurements of the boat you’re in. It’s a long, stretched-out cylinder with pointy ends. It looks a lot like a cigar, a shape that’s already been used in London for similar designs."

From front to back, the cylinder is exactly two hundred and thirty-two feet long, and the widest part is twenty-six feet. It’s not built exactly like the big ships you take on long voyages, but it’s long enough and curved just right so the water slides off easily and doesn’t cause any problems.

These measurements let you figure out the surface area and volume pretty easily. The surface area is six thousand and thirty-two feet, and the volume is about fifteen hundred cubic yards - meaning when it’s completely underwater, it pushes aside fifty thousand feet of water, or weighs fifteen hundred tons.

When I designed this underwater vessel, I wanted nine-tenths of it to be submerged, so it should only displace nine-tenths of its bulk - that is, only weigh that much. I shouldn't have exceeded that weight, building it with these measurements.

"The Nautilus has two hulls, one inside and one outside, connected by T-shaped metal supports, which makes it really strong. It's like a solid block - it doesn’t bend or flex. The sides don’t give way, and it’s all held together tightly, not just by the rivets."

Because the materials are perfectly combined, it can handle even the roughest seas.

"These two hulls are made of steel plates, which are less dense than water - about .seven to .eight of the density of water. The inner hull is at least two and a half inches thick and weighs three hundred and ninety-four tons. The outer hull, the keel, which is twenty inches high and ten inches thick, weighs sixty-two tons alone."

"The engine, the ballast, all the extra equipment, the walls and compartments, weigh nine hundred and sixty-one point six two tons. Are you following?" "Yeah, I got it."

"So, when the Nautilus is floating like this, one-tenth of it is out of the water. Now, if I’ve made storage tanks that are the size of this tenth, or can hold one hundred and fifty tons, and if I fill them with water, the boat, weighing then fifteen oh seven tons, will be completely submerged."

"That’s what would happen, Professor. These tanks are in the lower parts of the Nautilus. I just turn on the faucets and they fill, and the vessel sinks, having just been level with the surface."

"Okay, Captain, but now we get to the tricky part."

"I understand how you can rise to the surface, but diving below, doesn’t your underwater machine encounter pressure, and therefore experience an upward force of one atmosphere for every thirty feet of water, about fifteen pounds per square inch? "Exactly, sir."

"So, unless you completely fill the Nautilus, I don’t see how you can sink it to those depths."

"Professor, you can’t mix up static and dynamic forces, or you’re going to make some serious mistakes. It doesn’t take much effort to reach the lower parts of the ocean, because everything tends to sink."

"When I wanted to find out how much extra weight I needed to sink the Nautilus, I just had to calculate how much the seawater shrinks as it gets deeper." "That makes sense."

"Okay, so water isn't totally uncompressible, it can be squeezed a little bit, at least. Actually, the latest calculations show the reduction is only .four hundred and thirty-six of an atmosphere for every thirty feet down."

If we want to go three thousand feet, I'll have to account for the decrease in size under the pressure of a thousand feet of water. The math is easy to check. Now, I’ve got extra tanks that can hold a hundred tons. That means I can sink to a pretty deep spot.

"When I want to surface, I just release the water and empty all the tanks - if I want the Nautilus to pop up from, like, a tenth of its total capacity."

I didn’t see anything wrong with his reasoning.

"I get your calculations, Captain," I said.

"I wouldn’t argue with them, since we see it happen every day; but I foresee a real problem." "What’s up?"

"When you’re about a thousand feet down, the walls of the Nautilus are dealing with a pressure of one hundred atmospheres."

"So, if you were to empty the extra tanks right now, to lighten the boat, and go up to the surface, the pumps would have to fight a pressure of one hundred atmospheres - that’s fifteen hundred pounds per square inch. From that, you’ll need - "

" - That only electricity can provide," the Captain cut in, quickly.

"Seriously, sir, the power of my engines is practically unlimited. The pumps on the Nautilus are super powerful, like you saw when those jets of water exploded like a river against the Abraham Lincoln."

"Plus, I use these extra tanks mostly to maintain an average depth of seven hundred and fifty to ten hundred fathoms, just to manage the machines. And when I want to explore the ocean floor, five or six miles below the surface, I use slower, but just as reliable, methods. "What are they, Captain?"

"That means I’d have to explain how the Nautilus works." "I’m really eager to know."

"To steer this boat to the right or left, to turn - basically, following a horizontal plan, I use a regular rudder attached to the back of the sternpost, with a wheel and some ropes to steer."

But I can also make the Nautilus rise and sink, and sink and rise, by using a vertical movement with two angled planes attached to its sides, opposite the center of flotation. These planes move in every direction, and I operate them with powerful levers from inside.

If the planes are parallel to the boat, it moves horizontally. If angled, the Nautilus, depending on the angle, and with the screw working, either sinks or rises diagonally as I want.

"And if I want to surface quickly, I retract the screw, and the pressure of the water makes the Nautilus rise straight up, like a balloon filled with hydrogen."

"Amazing, Captain! But how does the steersman follow the route in the dark water?"

"The steersman stands in a glazed box that’s raised around the hull of the Nautilus, and it’s fitted with lenses."

"Are these lenses strong enough to handle that much pressure?"

"Totally. Glass, which breaks easily, can actually offer a lot of resistance. During some electric light fishing experiments in eighteen sixty-four in the Northern Seas, we saw plates less than a third of an inch thick resist a pressure of sixteen atmospheres."

"Now, the glass I use is more than thirty times thicker."

"Got it. But, still, to see, you need light to beat out the darkness, and in the pitch-black water, how can you see?"

"Behind the steersman’s cage is a powerful electric reflector, which lights up the sea for about half a mile in front."

"Ah! bravo, bravo, Captain! Now I understand this glow we saw on what we thought was a narwhal. So, about the boarding of the Nautilus and the Scotia - was it just a random thing?"

"Totally accidental, sir. I was just skimming the surface, about six feet down, when it happened. No harm done."

"None at all, sir. But now, about your run-in with the Abraham Lincoln?"

"Professor, I’m sorry about one of the best ships in the American navy, but they attacked me, and I had to defend myself. I just disabled the frigate; she’s gonna be fine after some repairs at the next port."

"Ah, Commander! your Nautilus is seriously an amazing boat."

"Yeah, Professor; and I love it like it’s part of me. When danger threatens a ship out on the ocean, you first feel like you've fallen into a huge void above and below. But on the Nautilus, people never lose their cool. No worries about defects, because the double hull is solid as iron."

No rigging to fix, no sails for the wind to rip, no boilers to explode, no fire to fear, since it’s made of iron, not wood. No need for coal, because electricity powers everything. No risk of crashing, because it’s the only thing swimming way down deep.

And no storms to worry about, because when it dives underwater, it’s totally calm. Seriously, that’s the perfect ship!

"And if it’s true that an engineer trusts a ship more than the builder, and the builder more than the captain, you get an idea of how much I trust my Nautilus - because I’m the captain, the builder, and the engineer all in one."

"But how did you build this incredible Nautilus in secret?"

"Each part, M. Aronnax, came from different places around the world. The keel was made in Creusot, the screw shaft at Penn and Co.’s in London, the iron plates for the hull at Laird’s in Liverpool, the screw itself at Scott’s in Glasgow."

"The reservoirs were made by Cail and Co. in Paris, the engine by Krupp in Prussia, the drill at Motala’s workshop in Sweden, the instruments from Hart Brothers in New York, and so on; I gave each of those companies my orders, but under different names."

"But these parts had to be put together and assembled, right?"

"Professor, I set up my workshops on a deserted island in the ocean. There my workers - brave people I taught and trained - and I put together our Nautilus."

"Then, when the work was done, a fire wiped out any trace of what we’d been doing on that island; I could have jumped over it if I wanted to."

"So, this ship must have cost a fortune?"

"M. Aronnax, an iron ship costs around sixty-seven dollars,five hundred per ton. The Nautilus weighed fifteen hundred tons, so that’s sixty-seven dollars,five hundred, plus another eighty dollars,zero for the fancy stuff and the collections it holds, totaling about two hundred dollars,zero."

"One last question, Captain Nemo." "Go ahead, Professor." "Are you rich?"

"Seriously rich, sir; I could pay off the national debt of France without even noticing."

I stared at this unusual guy who spoke so casually. Was he messing with me? Only time would tell.