Join Host Bree Carlile as she reads the fourth chapter of Twenty Thousand Leagues Under the Sea.

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Today we'll be continuing 20,000 leagues under.

The sea by Jules Verne chapter four ned land Captain Farragut was a good seamen, worthy of the frigate.

He commanded his vessel, and he were one.

He was the soul of it.

On the question of the cetacean, 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, as certain good women believe in the Leviathan, by faith, not by reason.

The monster did exist, and he had sworn to rid the seas of it.

He was a kind of knight of Rhodes, a second Diorn de gauzen going to meet the serpent which desolated the island.

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 crosstrees.

Who would have cursed such a birth under any other circumstances, as long as the sun described its daily course.

The rigging was crowded with sailors whose feet were burnt to such an extent by the heat of the deck as to render it unbearable.

Still, the Abraham Lincoln had not yet brusted the suspected waters of the Pacific.

As to the ship's company, they desired nothing better 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 $2,000 set apart for whoever should first sight the monster.

Were he cabin boy, common seamen or officer.

I leave you to judge how eyes were used on board the Abraham Lincoln.

For my own part, I was not behind the others and left no one my share of daily observations.

The frigate might have been called the argus for a hundred reasons.

Only one amongst us conceal seemed to protest by his indifference against the question which so interested us all, and 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.

No whaler had ever been better armed.

We possessed every known engine, from the harpoon thrown by the hand to the barbed arrows of the blunder bus and the explosive balls of the duck gun.

On the forecastle lay the perfection of a breech loading gun, very thick at the breach 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 10 miles.

Thus the Abraham Lincoln wanted for no means of destruction, and what was better still, she had on board Nedland, the prince of harpooners.

Nedland was a Canadian with an uncommon quickness of hand, and who knew no equal in his dangerous occupation.

Skill, coolness, audacity and cunning he possessed in a superior degree.

And it must be a cunning whale, or a singularly cute catch.

A lot to escape the stroke of his arpun.

Ned land was about 40 years of age.

He was a tall man, more than 6ft high, strongly built, grave 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 little communicative, as Ned Land was, I must admit that he took a certain liking for me.

My nationality drew him.

No doubt it was an opportunity for him to talk and for me to hear that old language of rabbalais.

Which is still in use in some canadian provinces.

The harpooner's family was originally from Quebec and was already a tribe of hardy fishermen when this town belonged to France.

Little by little, Ned Land acquired a taste for 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 seem to be listening to a canadian homer singing the iliad of the regions of the north.

I'm portraying this hearty companion as I really knew him.

We are old friends now, united in that unchangeable friendship which is born and cemented amidst extreme dangers.

Ah, brave Ned.

I ask no more than to live a hundred years longer.

Then I may have more time to dwell, the longer on your memory.

Now, what was Ned Land's opinion 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 30 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 Straits of Magellan opened less than 700 miles to the south.

Before eight days were over, the Abraham Lincoln would be plowing the waters of the Pacific.

Seated on the poop, Ned land 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 eyes of man, 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 land let me speak.

Without saying too much himself, I pressed him more closely.

Well, Ned, said I, is it possible that you're not convinced of the existence of this cetacean 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 collect himself, and said at last, perhaps I have, Mr.

Aranax.

But, Ned, you are a whaler by profession, familiarized with all the great marine mammalia.

You, whose imagination might easily accept the hypothesis of enormous cetaceans.

You ought to be the last to doubt under such circumstances.

That is just what deceives you, professor, replied Ned.

That the vulgar should believe in extraordinary comets traversing space, and in the existence of antediluvian monsters in the heart of the globe may well be, but neither astronomer nor geologist believes in such chimeras.

As a whaler, I followed many.

A cetacean harpooned a great number and killed several.

But however strong or well armed they may have been, neither their tails nor their weapons would have been able to even scratch the iron plates of a steamer.

But, Ned, they tell of ships which the teeth of the narwhal have pierced through and through wooden ships.

That is possible, replied the Canadian, but I've never seen it done.

And until further proof, I deny that whales, cetaceans or sea unicorns could ever produce the effect you describe.

Well, Ned, I repeat it with a conviction resting on the logic of facts.

I believe in the existence of a mammal power, fully organized, belonging to the branch of vertebrata like the whales, the cachalots or the dolphins, and furnished with a horn of defense of great, penetrating power, said the harpooner, 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 an organization the strength of which would defile comparison.

And why this powerful organization?

Demanded Ned, because it requires the incalculable strength to keep oneself in these strata and resist their pressure.

Listen to me.

Let us admit that the pressure of the atmosphere is represented by the weight of a column of water 32ft high.

In reality, the column of water would be shorter.

As we're speaking of seawater, the density of which is greater than that of freshwater.

Very well.

When you dive, Ned, as many times 32ft 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 320ft, this pressure equals that of ten atmospheres, of 100 atmospheres at 3200ft, and of 1000 atmospheres at 32,000ft, that is about 6 miles, which is equivalent to saying that if you could attain this depth in the ocean, each square three 8th 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.

Aaron Axe.

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 97 500 pounds, without my perceiving it?

Without your perceiving it.

And if you are not crushed by such a pressure, it is because the air penetrates the interior of your body with equal pressure.

Hence perfect equilibrium between the interior and exterior pressure, which thus neutralize each other and which allows you to bury it without inconvenience.

But in the water is another thing.

Yes, I understand, replied Ned, becoming more attentive.

Because the water surrounds me but does not penetrate.

Precisely, Ned.

So that at 32ft beneath the surface of the sea, you would undergo a pressure of 97 500 pounds.

At 320ft, ten times that pressure.

At 3200ft, a hundred times that pressure.

Lastly, at 32,000ft, a thousand times that pressure would be 97,500,000 pounds.

That is to say, that you would be flattened as if you'd been drawn from the plates of a hydraulic machine.

The devil.

Exclaimed Ned.

Very well, my worthy harpooner.

If some vertebrate several hundred yards long and large in proportion, can maintain itself in such depths of those whose surface is represented by millions of square inches, that is, by tens of millions of pounds, we must estimate the pressure they undergo.

Consider then, what must be the resistance of their bony structure and the strength of their organization to withstand such pressure.

Why, exclaimed Ned land, they must be made of iron plates eight inches thick, like the armored frigates.

As you say, Ned.

And think what destruction such a mass would cause if hurled with the speed of an express train against the hull of a vessel.

Yes, certainly, perhaps, replied the Canadian, shaken by these figures but not yet willing to give in.

Well, have I convinced you?

You've convinced me of one thing, sir, which is that if such animals do exist at the bottom of the seas, they must necessarily be as strong as you say.

But if they do not exist, mine obstinate harpooner, I'll explain the accident to the Scotia.

Thank you for joining Bite at a time books today while we read a bite of one of your favorite classics.

Again, my name is Brie Carlyle, and I hope you come back tomorrow for the next bite of 20,000 leagues under the sea.

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