DAKKAR

The True History of the Gentleman, Engineer and Prince

Known to the World as the Infamous Captain Nemo

By Professor Pierre Aronnax and diverse hands

Arranged, edited and annotated by Ron Miller

PREFACE

This extraordinary history is based in large part on manuscripts and notes found in a lead-lined teak box that was among the effects of the late Professor Pierre Aronnax, who had passed away in 1905 after a long and respected career at the Muséum national d’Histoire naturelle, in Paris. Having no family, the professor’s collection was placed in storage by the museum—originally as a temporary measure.

        It was not rediscovered until more than a century later, when the museum decided to expand the space devoted to the laboratory of the Jardin des Plantes. A yellowing pasteboard tag identified it as having once belonged to the still-revered Professor.

        What attracted the present editor was the gleaming, heavily embossed “N” inlaid in the cover of the box...a decoration which proved to be made of gold. It seemed an unlikely possession for the modest professor. Inside the box, the lock of which was easily picked by the custodian, was a tightly wrapped sheaf of papers, several notebooks, folded drawings and a handful of photographs, including a number of small glass photographic plates.

        The present volume is collated and arranged from the manuscripts and notes, many of which were in the Professor’s hand, others by an unknown author assumed to be Prince Yadupati Bhagwan Rao Newalkar, supplemented by independent research by the editor and others. It clears up a number of mysteries that have puzzled historians for nearly two centuries, yet raises many new questions. For instance, why, in spite of the Professor’s avowed optimism at the end of his narrative, did he not publish these revelations during his lifetime? Why did the remarkable history of the man known to the world only as “Captain Nemo” remain hidden until now?

                                                                ---Editor

DAKKAR

PART ONE: THE REBELLIOUS RANI

CHAPTER 1

THE LETTER

The young engineer laid a hand on the freshly laid brick of the curving tunnel wall and not for the first time marveled at what he saw only a few yards away. It was the great shield, within which thirty-six workmen labored at the seeping clay face of the tunnel being bored beneath the River Thames. Constructed of huge timbers in the form of a twelve immensely strong frames, each weighing in excess of seven tons, the circular shield was divided into three levels, creating a separate compartment for each laborer. At the front of each cell was a stout movable panel. As the laborer dug away at the clay at the front of his cell, he moved the board forward. As the board advanced, the cell itself was jacked ahead by two powerful screws. Thus, by a few yards a week, the face of the tunnel crept ahead.^[1] 

        Meanwhile, bricklayers were at work on all sides of the engineer, reinforcing and waterproofing the newly exposed floor, walls and ceiling of the tunnel.

        It had been a brilliant solution to an immensely difficult problem and he was proud to have been a contributor to its conception and design. But, marvelous as it was, very little had gone according to plan—as the young engineer knew all too well. The project was scarcely a year old and was already disastrously over-budget. In fact, that was the reason he was there that morning. Not, to his chagrin, in his role as one of the tunnel’s chief assistant engineers, but rather as a tour guide. The directors of the Thames Tunneling Company, in a panic over the rising costs of the giant project, had been reduced to charging tourists a shilling apiece to view the shield in operation. And a dozen wide-eyed sightseers were now grouped behind the young engineer. Eight men and four women, all with handkerchiefs pressed against their noses and mouths against the fetid rankness of the methane and sewage that seeped perpetually from the face of the tunnel—and even the walls, in spite of the insulating brick. The engineer himself scarcely noticed the odor any longer. Though this only meant he had to be doubly careful: there had already been dangerous explosions caused by methane ignited by the miner’s lamps. It had been bad enough before, but an accident involving even a single tourist would be far more catastrophic than the loss of half a dozen easily replaced laborers.

        “How far are we below the Thames?” someone asked, trying to make the nervous tremor in their voice sound facetious and failing entirely.^[2] 

        “About seventy-five feet,” the engineer replied, glancing toward the concave brick surface above him. Where the others shivered at the thought of millions of tons of water and ships above their heads, he thought of himself as a kind of modern Atlas. He imagined that arch of brick as being an extension of his own powerfully broad shoulders, supporting not only a riverbed and the water above. No, a great deal more rested on them. The river above was the lifeblood of the greatest empire the earth had ever seen. The hundreds of ships coming and going every day were vital corpuscles kept ceaselessly moving by the city that was the veritable heartbeat of that virile empire. The tunnel he was building would be a new artery, allowing the free, unimpeded flow of commerce between the docks growing at Rotherhithe and Wapping, on either side of the river.

        “Must it smell so dreadfully?” complained one of the women nasally.

        “It cannot be helped, ma’am.”

        “Well, if that’s so, you’ll never get people to travel like moles, down here in such nastiness! I know that tunnels are quite necessary for trains and the like, that’s perfectly natural. But down here in all this mud and slime...”

        “The tunnel isn’t meant for regular traffic, ma’am. When it’s finished, Mr. Brunel will install his new Atmospheric Railway. It will facilitate the transfer of merchandise from one side of the river to the other, much more quickly and efficiently than now possible.”

        “Pardon,” said one of the gentlemen, “but did I hear the chap who brought us down here say your name was Mr. Rao?”

        “Yes, that’s right.”

        “Can’t get a good look at you in this beastly light...but, I say, you’re some sort of wog, ain’t you?”

        “Yes, I’m from India, if that’s what you mean.”

        “Thought so! Damned good English, I say, for a wog! You’d never know it from the way you speak. What do you think, Clara?” he said, nudging the portly woman next to him. “Never take him for a wog, would you?”^[3]

        She merely simpered through the perfumed handkerchief she held pressed to her nose.

        “I was educated at Winchester and Cambridge,” replied Rao, “where I received degrees in Engineering and Mathematics. I’ve spent almost my entire life in your country.”^[4]

        The young engineer never really knew how to respond to comments about his race or nationality. Or perhaps he might have had some idea if such insults genuinely affected him. But like a joke told to a person with no sense of humor, Rao simply took the words at face value…as immune to the slurs and contempt of the ignorant and bigoted as a tone-deaf man would be to the melodies of Beethoven. For nearly twenty years, ever since being sent to England by his father, Krishna Rao Newalkar, Yadupati Bhagwan Rao Newalkar had been reminded almost daily that he was an outsider and not once had he responded in kind.^[5] Indeed, he took no more notice of the insults—whether subtle or blatant—than he did of the weather, fox hunting or politics. Fifteen years in England, a public school and university education combined with a complete indifference to his cultural origins had resulted in a young man who so far as dress and speech were concerned was indistinguishable from any well-bred Briton. Still, he bore the stigmata of his origins, the brown skin and black eyes of his people, but, worse, they were the features of a conquered people and classmates, co-workers and even total strangers didn’t hesitate to show their contempt. A contempt that, as this editor has been at some pains to point out, was wasted on the single-minded engineer. One Englishman and one alone had been oblivious to Rao’s origins. That was Isambard Kingdom Brunel, who was, so far as Yadupati was concerned, the greatest human being alive.^[6]

        After an early graduation at the age of twenty, with honors, Yadupati had found work as a junior draftsman the Great Western Railway’s London to Bristol line.^[7] He had hoped to gain the practical experience he needed to design railroads in his native state of Bundelkhand. But he had only been working for a few months when he was called into the chief engineer’s office.

        “There’s someone wants to see you, Rao,” said the engineer in the tone normally reserved for talking in the presence of royalty or about the recently deceased. “It’s Brunel, Rao! Brunel!”

        It was only then that Yadupati was aware of the other man in the room. Though the newcomer was small and nattily dressed, he had the compactness of a bear, with pent-up energy that the Indian could palpably feel. The man wore an impossibly tall hat which he apparently refused to remove. At least it steadfastly remained in place throughout the ensuing interview.^[8]

        The chief engineer was continuing with his breathless introductions, but Yadupati paid him no attention. He knew who Brunel was. The greatest engineer of the nineteenth century. Perhaps the greatest engineer who had ever lived. Tunnels previously considered impossible, bridges of unprecedented span, iron ships bigger than anything ever seen before, all poured from that astonishing brain with unbelievable fecundity and success.

        “You’re the Indian, aren’t you?” were the first words from the powerful little man, as he grasped Yadupati’s hand in a grip that felt as though it had fifty atmospheres of live steam behind it. His voice was high-pitched, almost feminine, which surprised Yadupati.

        “Yes, sir.”

        “Thought so,” replied Brunel in the last reference to the engineer’s nationality he would ever make. “I’ve seen your work.”

        “You have, sir?”

        “Not this,” Brunel said, dismissing the drawings that buried Yadupati’s table with an almost contemptuous gesture, “but these.”

        He opened a tubular leather case that had been wedged under his arm and withdrew a thick roll of paper sheets. Yadupati saw what they were and for a long moment speech escaped him.

        “I—how did you get those, sir?”

        “Does it matter?” Brunel replied in genuine surprise, as he unrolled the drawings and spread them over the table. Yadupati had recognized them at first sight. He had been working on them in his spare time and after hours for months. He had kept them strictly private, telling no one about them and thought them safely locked away in his desk. He wanted to feel righteous outrage at this blatant violation of his privacy...but this was Brunel!

        “You’ve been studying Monturiol, I see,” Brunel stated flatly.^[9] It was not a question.

        “Yes, sir. I think his Ictineo is a brilliant conception. Well, at least conceptually at any rate. I think in actual practice it showed some room for, um, improvement.”

        “Indeed, indeed. I can see that in these drawings. You’d have built the thing of iron, I see, instead of wood.”

        “Yes, sir. And powered it with the new Bunsen batteries.^[10] Monturiol gave too little thought to efficient propulsion, in my opinion.”

        “In my opinion, too. The scale of your ship is impressive. Over two hundred feet. Four times the size of the Ictineo.”

        “It’s one of the reasons I chose iron for its construction, sir. Wood was good enough at the scale Monturiol was working, but for a really practical vessel...”

        “Iron, of course. I couldn’t agree more. I see your overall scheme shows something of the influence of Ross Winans’ experiments as well.”^[11]

        “I saw his cigar ship in the Thames after it had made its Atlantic crossing. I admit it made a great impression on me.”

        “And on me as well. Well, Mr. Rao,” said Brunel as he rerolled the plans and handed them back to the astonished engineer, “I like your thinking. It has scale and daring and imagination. Would you care to work with me on Thames Tunnel?”

        Yadupati could only stammer his assent and after a few minutes’ further discussion, the bare details of his future employment were satisfactorily sketched out.

        “I’ll see you in my offices on Monday, then, Mr. Yadupati,” said Brunel as he prepared to leave. “I have a big ship—a very big ship—I’d like to have you help design, though I fear it’ll be nothing like this fantastic submarine boat of yours.”

        But the problems associated with the unprecendented tunnel had forced both men to put aside all thoughts of giant ships. And then, for nearly a decade, Yadupati found his hours, days and months occupied by the creation of bridges the likes of which had never been seen before.

After the completion of the tunnel, the great engineer had quickly made the young man his protégé, setting him to work on the problems facing the construction of the several extraordinary bridges he wanted to build.^[12] To this end, Brunel had sent Dakkar to the United States to study the work being done by John Roebling, who was undertaking a daring railroad bridge over the Niagara River.^[13] The Roebling bridge was to be a suspension design with two levels, one for vehicles and one for rail traffic, something Brunel had not yet attempted. Already committed to a project to span the Avon River and Gorge with a great suspension bridge, the engineer hoped he might benefit from the experience of his American counterpart.^[14]

        Dakkar had made the crossing on the SS Baltic, the fastest liner in the world and an example of American maritime engineering.^[15] Dakkar was anxious to examine first-hand. Dakkar also took advantage of being in the United States to visit a scientist he’d heard a great deal about, Joseph Henry.^[16] He’d had only a few days to spare before he had to return to England, but Albany was more or less on his route back to New York from where the great Niagara bridge was being constructed.

         The renowned scientist was only too happy to spend a couple of hours relating some of his researches into electricity—especially the problem of induction. One demonstration particularly fascinated Dakkar. This was merely an electromagnet balanced on its center by a vertical support. The leads at either end of the magnet were each over the cell of a battery. When Henry started the device, the electromagnet began see-sawing up and down, as the contacts at either end were alternately made and broken. Dakkar was fascinated, immediately likening the action to that of the rocking arm that drove the paddle wheels of a steamboat.

        He thought about this all the way back to England.

* * * *

“Dakkar!”

        The engineer turned at the sound of the familiar voice, belonging to the only Englishman who knew and used Yadupati’s Hindu nickname.^[17] He saw the compact little man entering the drafting room. Yadupati rushed to meet his employer, his hand outstretched in greeting.

        “Mr. Brunel! It’s good to see you, sir!”

        “Indeed, indeed!” the other replied, grasping the engineer’s hand in the machine-like grip that Yadupati always found surprising. “How much done today?”

        “The plans for the trusses are complete, sir.”

        “Good! Excellent! The Company will be pleased!”

        Brunel clapped Dakkar on a shoulder. It was a rare gesture since, being a full foot shorter, he had to stretch to do so. Self-conscious of his height, Brunel usually made certain to keep two or three paces from the tall engineer lest unfortunate comparisons be made. Under no circumstances did he ever in public remove the tall stovepipe hat he invariably wore, especially when there might be a chance of anyone observing him in the company of his assistant. That he had no shyness regarding his height in the private presence of Dakkar was a testament to the affection he had for the Indian engineer.

        “I want you to come with me, Dakkar. I have something I’d like to discuss with you.”

        “Certainly, sir.”

        Glad for a respite from his drawings, Dakkar accompanied the renowned engineer to his offices in York Street.

        “You’re a sailing man, aren’t you”? asked Brunel without preamble the moment the two men had entered the cluttered office and shut the door behind them.

        “Yes, sir. I have a little sailboat I enjoy taking out on weekends.”

        “A far cry from the Great Western, I’d say!”^[18]

        “Indeed it is, sir!” Dakkar replied, puzzled. This seemed like idle small talk and the pragmatic engineer was rarely given to pointless chatter.

        “I told you when you first came to work for me that I had an idea.”

        “Yes, sir. A big ship, you’d said.”

        “A very big ship, I believe I said. Look at this.”

        Brunel cleared the surface of a table with sweep of his arm and unrolled a large drawing, anchoring its corners with lead paper weights. Dakkar caught his breath. It was a big ship, all right.

        “Six times larger than any ship ever built. Six hundred and ninety-two feet long,” Brunel was saying, “eighty-two feet abeam. She’ll displace more than thirty-two thousand tons and carry at least four thousand passengers. With a full load of coal it’ll circle the world without refueling.”

        It was beautiful, Dakkar decided.^[19] The most beautiful piece of engineering he’d ever seen. And the most audacious. Looked at objectively, the ship had none of the grace of a clipper or even the great steam liners then plying the Atlantic. It was, in fact, a great, ungainly block of iron. If nothing else, Brunel’s ship looked like a warehouse with six stumpy masts jutting from its deck and a screw and paddlewheels added for good measure. It was still the most beautiful thing Dakkar had ever seen.

        His hands were shaking as he tore his eyes away from the drawing and looked at the engineer, who merely stood there gazing at the young Indian expressionlessly.

        “This will be the greatest thing you have ever done, sir. The greatest thing in the world. I can imagine no higher honor than being able to work on it.”

        “I believe I shall call it the Leviathan,” said Brunel.^[20]

* * * *

Dakkar labored on the plans for the great vessel for more than three years. It dwarfed anything he had ever before faced. As a senior engineer—although Dakkar was but 34 years old—he was privy to every aspect of the monster ship. He learned more in those few years about marine architecture, iron working and mechanics than he had in his entire university career.

        He was engrossed in a tediously difficult problem with the proper sealing of valve chest gaskets when there was a knock at the door and he grunted with annoyance. “What is it?”

        “A thousand pardons,” said the clerk who appeared, “but there is a cable here for Mr. Newalkar. It’s marked ‘urgent’ so I thought—”

        “All right, all right. Give it here.”

        He took the envelope and slammed the door shut. Dakkar felt unaccountably annoyed, like a music hall performer who had been interrupted by a heckler. He glanced at the envelope, which bore his name, and then tore open the cable.

        It was from Jhansi, the capital of Bundelkhand, and signed by his aunt, Laxmi Bai, the Rani of Jhansi.^[21] It said only:

                Your father is mortally ill.

                Return home soonest.

                You are desperately needed here