The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  “What do I care, if we don’t go back?” riposted Passepartout. “I’ll bankrupt the gas company!”

  Apart from a few altercations between the irascible Phileas and the volatile Bixby, who was seething with impatience, nothing remarkable happened in the colony for several days. A few little rafts had been constructed by the mariners to facilitate communication between the lodges, but they were only used with extreme prudence, for a few parties of Patagonians had been observed roaming in search of the caravan.

  The cooking was done at night, under the direction of the former ship’s cook of La Belle Léocadie. The food was distributed in the morning and calm reigned all day long within the village. The ladies were slightly bored by this inaction, but a few hours spent playing little games on the central platform enhanced their patience. To occupy them, the sailors taught them the difficult art of line-fishing. Farandoul regretted this—he was worried about frying, whose odor might have attracted the Patagonians—but as the ladies, in spite of their attentiveness, made no miraculous catches, he allowed them their pastime.

  The moonlit evenings were splendid; the colony, gathered on the platform and the roofs of the surrounding huts, spent pleasant hours in general or individual conversation. Mandibul, forever gallant, had the idea one day of putting on a ball for the ladies; it was a great success. Seaman Escoubico, who formed the entire orchestra, almost wore out his guitar.

  The refreshments furnished by the lake were not in short supply. Mandibul even contrived a few different kinds of drinks: pure water, slightly acidulated water and water even more slightly sugared.

  On morning, at daybreak, Farandoul, who was strolling on the platform, was astonished to see a hand-written placard attached to the largest of the huts, which read:

  PUBLIC MEETING

  Citizen Passepartout invites the inhabitants of the colony to a great and fraternal meeting this evening, at 8 p.m.

  Order of the day: The political organization of the new colony; establishment of universal suffrage.

  Proposal: Ladies are admitted to meetings in anticipation of an electoral system.

  Jean Passepartout.

  Parisian ex-voter.

  Please translate for the ladies.

  Passepartout’s proposal was a great success. After Mandibul’s musical soirée, they would have a political soirée. Unfortunately, the meeting was stormy. Questions of organization took a long time to clarify. After long and solemn speeches, Farandoul was appointed Head of State of the Beaver Republic, with Mandibul as his vice-president. Phileas Fogg, who put himself forward as a candidate, was blackballed.

  Phileas and Bixby argued for a long time, the former for the name of New London and the second for that of New New York. Mandibul, increasingly poetic, held out for New Venice, but Farandoul finally secured universal agreement by proposing Beavertown. Let us say right away that Phileas, to protest against the decision of the majority vote, continued to call the colony Beaver City.

  Three weeks had gone by. The Patagonians had disappeared; it was hoped that they had left the region for good, having given up all hope of finding the caravan. In spite of the tranquility of the town, its inhabitants wanted nothing more than to resume their journey—except for Passepartout, who declared that he had adopted Beavertown as his definitive fatherland and intended to stay there with the girl of his dreams. As he pronounced these words he darted languorous glances at a certain dwelling inhabited by Rising Moon; as young Ernestine, the Parisian girl saved by Phileas at the beginning of their journey also resided there, Farandoul assumed that the glances could as easily be addressed to her and paid no attention.

  An alarm raised by a sentry on the morning of the 25th day brought the colony out of its quietude.

  “The Patagonians! Look out—here they come!”

  Farandoul leapt to his feet. It was only too true. Scarcely a kilometer away, hundreds of horsemen were approaching—and, disturbingly, mounted Patagonians were visible in the water.

  It was not easy to establish silence in the ladies’ camp, but calm was finally attained. The Patagonians were drawing nearer. Farandoul, who was watching them through a portable telescope, suddenly let out an exclamation. Mandibul glanced out in his turn and went pale.

  “The beavers!” he cried.

  “I see!” said Farandoul. “The Patagonians must have encountered the beavers that we expropriated; it must have surprised them, and, on reflection, they guessed. We’re about to be discovered.”

  The tumult produced by the swimming of a thousand beavers was soon audible; they were advancing rapidly, driven from behind by a few Patagonian riders.

  Some distance from the village, the poor breathless animals slowed down; they seemed to hesitate between crossing the lake and returning to their native territory, but instinct soon got hold of them. The white men’s last hope disappeared—the beavers were heading towards their lodges!

  The savages ran forward, cheering, and installed themselves on the shore as if to see what would happen. They had evidently seen through Farandoul’s ruse. The latter had the time to recommend absolute silence to his friends.

  The beavers had come into the village and climbed on to the roofs without daring to venture into the interior. The savages waited impatiently. Finally, reassured by the calm of their dwellings, the beavers took the risk and the boldest ventured into the lodges.

  “That’s all right,” said Mandibul. “They’re not too frightened!”

  Suddenly, feminine screams broke out; a violent commotion was heard in one of the lodges. A few frightened beavers dived. Immediately, a mad panic took hold of all the ladies; cries of terror in every language came from all directions, and frightened women surged out of all the windows, climbing on to the roofs or leaping from walkway to walkway, a few diving into the water, all heading for the platform.

  The Patagonians on the bank were dancing with joy. Some were preparing to leap into the water.

  “Let’s go!” said Farandoul. “The time has come to show ourselves.” And, on his signal, the sailors climbed on to the roofs of the huts, armed with rifles.

  The savages stopped.

  Saturnin Farandoul, Mandibul and Bixby were on top of the first lodge. “Halt!” cried Bixby. “Patagonian warriors, you have seen what the white men can do with their weapons. Don’t attack them—the Great Spirit will protect them!”

  One chief, more than six feet tall, advanced into the lake. “White men!” he cried. “The young white women are pretty; the Patagonian warriors are brave; they will be good husbands; the young white women will be very happy!”

  “You’ve already told us that. We’re determined to defend the young white women. Patagonian warriors, beware!”

  “Very well! The Great Spirit is good. The Patagonian warriors are brave!” As he spoke these words the chief made a sign and a volley of arrows whistled towards the sailors—but the latter were on their guard; they leapt backwards and ducked into the huts.

  A fearful silence reigned over the lake for a few minutes; the sailors in the huts were busy enlarging loopholes prepared some time before. Finally, the Patagonians, encouraged by the silence, threw themselves into the water. Suddenly, a frightful discharge of musket-fire cut through the air. The poor bewildered beavers leapt into the lake desperately and fled their village, now occupied by infernal beings. Thick smoke hung momentarily over the huts. The women screamed more loudly and took refuge in the remotest huts. Phileas and Passepartout, flailing about in their midst, tried in vain to restore order.

  The fusillade continued. The Patagonians urged their horses forward bravely to traverse the 30 meters that separated them from the village, but the mariners’ well-aimed bullets struck them down en route. A certain hesitancy began to manifest itself in the attack; the Patagonian horsemen soon turned back and dismounted on the bank. The others had not remained inactive; they had rapidly felled several trees and rolled large boulders, from behind which they continued to launch futile volleys of arrows, to whic
h the sailors disdained to reply.

  Through the loopholes in his lodge, Farandoul was able to count nearly 1000 enemies. “Damn!” he murmured. “That’s a whole army!”

  “Yes,” said Mandibul, “and an army that doesn’t seem disposed to abandon the attack. We’re about to see the siege of Beavertown. It’s necessary to do things properly and raise the town’s flag!” And he took an old flag from his personal haversack, by the sight of which Farandoul was moved, and which the sailors, equally moved, saluted with loud hurrahs. It was the flag of Australia, saved by Mandibul after the great disaster in Melbourne.

  Under the hail of Patagonian arrows, Mandibul went slowly on to the top of the hut to plant the flag, while Farandoul ordered a supportive salvo of gunfire.

  For their part, the Patagonians were also organizing themselves; the siege had begun.

  “We have food-supplies for four days,” Farandoul said. “The women have to get busy line-fishing under the direction of the ship’s cook, and we need to ration our provisions. Tonight, two men will slip silently over to the other shore of the lake and try to lasso a few bison. Six men on guard will suffice to keep watch on the Patagonians; the others can rest.”

  Meanwhile, Phileas Fogg and Passepartout had succeeded in calming the ladies; on Farandoul’s orders they were lined up together on the furthest huts, beyond the range of arrows, and were set to work with fishing-lines. Three hundred and forty lines were operating with varying degrees of success. Madame Aouda, the ship’s cook and a few ladies working in shifts started preparing dinner. As for Rising Moon, she leaned over a fragment of mirror and repaired her war-paint, with her tomahawk in her belt.

  The angriest of all those under siege was Horatius Bixby. Close as he was to the diamond mines he had discovered, he still saw obstacles multiplying in front of him. Phileas and he only agreed on one thing; they both demanded to undertake a sortie—which Farandoul, the governor of the town, forbade absolutely.

  “No sorties! We’ll remain on the defensive!”

  For two days and two nights, the besiegers and the besieged watched one another without any resumption of hostilities. The men on watch each night were extremely careful, but the Patagonians did not seem disposed to attack again. Their plan seemed to be to starve Beavertown out. The ladies, warned of the danger, fished from dawn till dusk; they were already acquiring a certain skill, and the fishes of the lake made their contribution to the besieged population’s meals.

  The Patagonians observed them from the shore. One morning, one of the boldest made an immense circuit in the lake and approached the fisherwomen without being perceived, swimming underwater. The Parisian Ernestine was baiting her hook when the Patagonian emerged abruptly and grabbed her dress.

  Ernestine screamed and fell into the water. The Patagonian, supporting her with one arm and swimming with the other, resumed his course in the lake amid the shouts of the ladies. A few sailors came running, but the fear of hitting the unfortunate girl prevented them from firing at the savage. A quarter of an hour later, he was seen emerging on to the shore with his conquest and receiving the congratulations of his comrades.

  The furious Passepartout expended five of his last 18 cartridges without being able to hit the delighted Patagonian.

  From that moment on the fisherwomen were guarded by two men with carbines in hand; the Patagonians who repeated the attempt were greeted with rifle-fire.

  The sight of smoke and the odor of frying undoubtedly modified the strategy of the besiegers, for Beavertown was subjected to a terrible assault in the middle of the fifth night. For two hours there was fighting, almost hand-to-hand. Phileas Fogg lost one of his gloves in the confusion; as for Passepartout, he disappeared at the beginning of the battle.

  The nascent dawn brought an end to the hostilities. Beavertown had suffered losses; the great frontal assault had not succeeded, but a Patagonian column had been able to swim around the town’s left flank and had occupied three lodges. Loud screams raised by the ladies in the captured lodges echoed in the darkness and then—O terror!—soon died away into a fearful silence. Phileas and a few men ran back, but it was too late; the screaming had stopped. In the mute lodges, the Patagonians were hurriedly fortifying themselves.

  In order to discover the extent of the town’s losses, Phileas called feverishly for Passepartout, the custodian of the roll-call list. Passepartout could not be found. What had become of him? Had he perished heroically, victim of his duty? Had he fallen alive into the hands of the barbarous aggressors?

  Farandoul and his sailors redoubled their efforts to try to save what remained of the town, without trying to hide the fact that the situation was critical, and getting steadily worse. Phileas, for want of the list, tried to establish the arithmetical extent of the losses. There were 20 ladies missing, including Madame Aouda, Phileas’ companion on his first journey, who had vanished like Passepartout.

  The fate of the majority of the ladies was soon determined. The Patagonians had sent them to their camp, and they appeared on the shore in front of the besieged positions during the day. The rumor ran around Beavertown, and all the ladies came running to see the unfortunate prisoners. Phileas Fogg, pale and tense, climbed up on the first lodge. Madame Aouda was nowhere to be seen among the captives. Passepartout was equally invisible.

  Everyone in Beavertown extended trembling hands towards the prisoners. Tears were flowing when all of a sudden, that desolation was interrupted by outbursts of laughter from the unfortunates. Far from complaining, the captives seemed delighted with their misfortune. A single glance was sufficient for the ladies to determine the reason for their attitude. The unfortunate creatures were literally streaming with diamonds! Diamonds as large as pebbles, arranged in necklaces, diadems and bracelets; diamonds sparkling in heavy pendants on their breasts; diamonds around their arms—diamonds everywhere!!!

  A general cry of admiration went up. Phileas was obliged to restrain several ladies who were ready to launch themselves toward the shore.

  “My diamonds!” cried the engineer Horatius Bixby. “My diamonds!” Under the pressure of emotion, he imprudently revealed the existence of the Patagonian diamond-mines, the goal of the expedition so unfortunately undertaken by Farandoul.

  What a tumult there was in the besieged city! What a hubbub of feminine voices, discussing, disputing and quarrelling in all the languages on Earth. Phileas redoubled his efforts to re-establish order, but his voice, formerly so authoritative, had lost its empire over the ladies. The defenders of Beavertown had a great deal of difficulty holding their positions; in the meantime, it was getting dark, increasing the disorder.

  In addition to the horrors of a siege, was Beavertown to see civil war within its walls, beneath the very eyes of the enemy, eager to profit from internal disorders? The sailors, disseminated along the full extent of their battle-line, could scarcely maintain their communications. Farandoul took a patrol of five seamen and searched all the lodges, looking for Rising Moon, who had also been missing since morning. Farandoul and Fogg, as is understandable, were equally distraught, each having lost the companion of his heart.

  An insoluble enigma! What had become of Aouda? What had become of Rising Moon? Neither one of them was in the hands of the Patagonians.

  Night fell—a terrible night! On the shore the Patagonian camp resounded with joyful howls, screams, songs and frightful music. There was dancing, there was laughter; they were preparing for the final assault.

  In the town, discord reigned supreme. Phileas had lost all authority over the besieged women; the mariners still held firm in the face of the enemy, but on one side of the town, a few rebels had raised the red flag—a Mexican skirt on the end of a pole. Their ranks were growing by the minute. Farandoul, returning at the head of his patrol after two hours of fruitless searching, had some difficulty getting through the tumultuous group of rebel women to regain his post facing the Patagonian camp.

  Phileas Fogg, in desperation, tried to make one last effort to mak
e the insurgent ladies see reason—futile obstinacy! He tried in vain to reach the red flag; he threatened, pleaded and gagged, in vain. The rebels surrounded him; he tried to resist but he was knocked down and tied to the pole of the red flag.

  The denouement could not be long delayed. Loud cries burst forth; a Patagonian showed his broad thick-lipped face in front of one of the captured lodges; another head appeared, then another—and 300 warriors suddenly surged out of the water, scaling the defenses and spreading out from lodge to lodge.

  Beavertown was taken!

  The sailors, having witnessed Phileas’ efforts and seen the ladies introducing the enemy into the town, had ceased firing and were writhing with laughter in their lodges, which the Patagonians were very wary of approaching. Meanwhile, Farandoul, seeing Phileas in the grip of the savages, decided to intervene. On his orders, Bixby opened negotiations.

  Two chiefs came to the central cabin; delighted with their success, the white men being defeated, they only wanted to see peace restored and consented, with a good grace, to return Phileas Fogg. The negotiations lasted until morning. Farandoul refused to make any attempt to recover the 347 women who had gone over to the Patagonian camp over their own accord. He only asked for the restitution of Rising Moon to himself and Madame Aouda to Phileas Fogg. That was a difficulty; the Patagonians swore on their greatest gods that those ladies were not in their hands. The matter was easy to verify; the Patagonian camp was investigated from top to bottom. The Patagonians responded to interrogation willingly, but all these researches produced no result.

  What was the key to the mystery?

  With regard to Rising Moon, Phileas finally admitted under questioning that, in response to repeated entreaties from Passepartout, he had given the latter orders to abduct the young Indian woman along with Halpa-Talca, Mandibul’s Patagonian. These ladies, added to the list, had been placed with Madame Aouda under the particular protection of Passepartout, and had disappeared with their protector the day before. Farandoul and Lieutenant Mandibul were hopping mad when they heard this. To their righteous wrath, Phileas opposed violent recriminations; he accused them of having distracted him from his mission as a licensed savior and reproached them for having meddled in his business on the Rio Negro.