Then all the crew came aboard and the door of communication was shut. The Nautilus was then resting upon a bed of ice, which was about a yard in thickness, and pierced in a thousand places.
The reservoirs were then opened, and 300 cubic feet of water admitted, increasing the weight of the vessel to about 1,800 tons.
We waited, we listened, all suffering forgotten in the tension of those moments, hoping still. We had thrown our last stake for safety.
Notwithstanding the buzzings that filled my brain, I soon heard groanings beneath the hull of the Nautilus. The ice cracked in a curious manner, with a sound like the tearing of paper, and the Nautilus broke through.
“We have passed it,” muttered Conseil in my ear.
I was not able to reply. I seized his hand, and pressed it convulsively.
The Nautilus, carried down by the enormous weights within, sank like a stone. Then all the electric force was put on the pumps to clear the water out, and in a few minutes our fall was checked. Soon after the manometer indicated an ascensional movement. The screw going at full speed made the vessel trembie, even to its bolts, and we “steamed” to the north. But how long was this progress beneath the ice to last? Another day? I shall be dead before that!
I lay half-suffocated upon the divan in the library. My face was blue, my faculties suspended. I saw and heard nothing. All idea of time had left me. My muscles refused to contract.
Suddenly I came to myself. Some breaths of air seemed to penetrate my lungs. Had we gained the surface? Had we cleared the iceberg?
