ASMR Reading - Chapter 4

Transcript

This is Anna from annawinters.com I hope you're enjoying some 20.000 eggs under the sea Chapter 4 Net Land Captain Farragut was a good seaman, worthy of the frigate he commanded. His vessels, any or one, was the soul of it. On the question of the monster, there was no doubt in his mind, and he would not allow the existence of the animal to be disputed on board.

He believed in it. A certain good woman believed in the Leviathan, by faith, not by reason. The monster did exist, and he had sworn to rid the seas of it.

Either Captain Farragut would kill the narwhal, or the narwhal would kill the captain. There was no third course. The officers on board shared the opinion of their chief.

They were ever chatting, discussing and calculating the various chances of a meeting, watching narrowly the vast surface of the ocean. More than one took up his quarters voluntarily in the cross-trees, who would have cursed such a bird under any other circumstances. As long as the sun described its daily course, the rigging was crowded with sailors, whose feet were burned to such an extent by the heat of the deck as to render it unbearable.

Still, the abandoned canoe has not yet crossed the suspected waters of the Pacific. As to the ship's company, they desired nothing more than to meet the unicorn, to harpoon it, hoist it on board and dispatch it. They watched the sea with eager attention.

Besides, Captain Farragut had spoken of a certain sum of two thousand dollars, set apart for whoever should first sight the monster, were he cabin boy, common seaman or officer. I leave you to judge how our eyes were used on board. The Abraham Lincoln For my own part, I was not behind the others, and left to no one my share of daily observations.

The frigate might have been called the Argus for a hundred reasons, only one among us. The consul seemed to protest by his indifference against the question which so interested us all, and it seemed to be out of keeping with the general enthusiasm on board. I have said that Captain Farragut had carefully provided his ship with every apparatus for catching the gigantic cetacean.

Nowhere had I ever been better armed. We possessed every known engine, from the harpoon thrown by the hand to the barbed arrows of the blunderbuss and the explosive balls of the dart gun. On the forecastle lay the perfection of a breech-loading gun, very thick at the breech and very narrow in the bore, the model of which had been in the exhibition of 1867.

This precious weapon of American origin could throw with ease a conical projectile of nine pounds to a mean distance of ten miles. Thus, the Abraham Lincoln wanted for no means of destruction, and what was better still she had on board Ned Lant, the prince of all pruners. Ned Lant was a Canadian, with an uncommon quickness of hand, and who knew no equal in his tenuous occupation.

Skill, coolness, audacity, and cunning is repossessed in a superior degree, and it must be a cunning way to escape the stroke of his harpoon. Ned Lant was about forty years of age. He was a tall man, more than six feet high, strongly built, brave and taciturn, occasionally violent and very passionate when contradicted.

His person attracted attention, but above all the boldness of his look, which gave a singular expression to his face. Who calls himself Canadian calls himself French, and a little communicative as Ned Lant was, I must admit that he took a certain liking for me. My nationality drew him to me, no doubt.

It was an opportunity for him to talk, and for me to hear that old language of Rabelais, which is still in use in some Canadian provinces. The all pruners family was originally from Quebec, and was already a tribe of hardy fishermen when this town belonged to France. Little by little, Ned Lant acquired a taste of food chatting, and I loved to hear the recital of his adventures in the polar seas.

He related his fishing and his combats with natural poetry of expression. His recital took the form of an epic poem, and I seemed to be listening to a Canadian Homer singing the Ariadne of the regions of the North. I was portraying this hardy companion as I really knew him.

We were old friends now, united in that intangible friendship which is born and cemented amidst extreme dangers. Ah, brave Ned, I ask no more than to live a hundred years longer, that I may have more time to dwell the longer of your memory. Now, what was Ned Lant's opinions upon the question of the marine monster? I must admit that he did not believe in the unicorn, and was the only one on board who did not share that universal conviction.

He even avoided the subject, which I one day thought it my duty to press upon him. One magnificent evening, the 30th of July, that is to say three weeks after our departure, the frigate was abreast of Cape Blanc, 30 miles to leeward of the coast of Patagonia. We had crossed the Tropic of Capricorn and the Strait of Magellan, opened less than 700 miles to the south, before eight days were over, the Aberlancans would be ploughing the waters of the Pacific.

Seated on the pool, Ned Lant and I were chatting of one thing and another as we looked at this mysterious sea, whose great depths had up to this time been inaccessible to the eye of humans. I naturally led up the conversation to the giant unicorn, and examined the various chances of success or failure of the expedition. But, seeing that Ned Lant made me speak without saying too much for himself, I pressed him more closely.

Well, Ned, said I, is it possible that you are not convinced of the existence of this sedition that we are following? Have you any particular reason for being so incredulous? The harpooner looked at me fixedly for some moments before answering, struck his broad forehead with his hand, a habit of his, as if to correct himself, and said at last, Perhaps I have, Mr.

Elronax. But Ned, you, a whaler by profession, familiarized with all the great marine mammalia, you ought to be the last to doubt under such circumstances. That is just what deceives you, Professor, replied Ned.

As a whaler, I have followed many a sedition, harpooned a great number, and killed several. But, however strong or well-armed they may have been, neither their taste nor their weapons would have been able to scratch the iron plates of a steamer. But, Ned, they tell of ships which the teeth of the Norwalk have pierced through and through.

Wooden ships, that is possible, replied the Canadian. But I have never seen it done, and until further proof, I deny that ways, seditions, or sea unicorns would ever produce the effect you describe. Well, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction resting on the logical facts.

I believe in the existence of the mammal of power, fully organized, belonging to the branch of vertebra, like the wasps, gashalots, or the dolphins, and furnished with the horn of defense of great penetrating power. Hmm, said the old porner, shaking his head with the air of a man who would not be convinced. Notice one thing, my worthy Canadian, I resumed.

If such an animal is in existence, if it inhabits the depths of the ocean, if it frequents the strata lying miles below the surface of the water, it must necessarily possess in an organization the strength, the strength of which would defy all comparison. And why this powerful organization, demanded Ned? Because it requires incalculable strength to keep oneself in the strata and resist the pressure.

Listen to me. Let us admit that the pressure of the atmosphere is represented by the weight of a column of water 32 feet high. In reality, the column of water would be shorter, as we are speaking of sea water, the density of which is greater than that of fresh water.

Very well, while you dive, Ned, as many times 32 feet of water as there are above you, so many times does your body bear pressure equal to that of the atmosphere, that is to say 15 pounds for each square inch of its surface. It follows, then, that at 320 feet, this pressure equals that of 10 atmospheres. Of 100 atmospheres at 3200 feet.

And of 1000 atmospheres at 32000 feet. That is about 6 miles, which is equivalent to saying that if you could attain this depth in the ocean, each square three-eighth of an inch of the surface of your body would bear a pressure of 5600 pounds. Ah, my brave Ned, do you know how many square inches you carry on the surface of your body? I have no idea, Mr.

Avernax. About 6500, and as in reality the atmospheric pressure is about 15 pounds to the square inch, your 6500 square inches bear at this moment a pressure of 97500 pounds. Without my perceiving it, without your perceiving it.