The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  “Well,” said Farandoul, “the delay granted to Hatteras seems to me to be an imprudence, but it’s done now; we’ll hold our respective positions until tomorrow. The temperature is delightful; we’ll be perfectly all right in our cave, refreshed by the sea breeze—but two men must mount guard to prevent any surprise. Now, let’s attack our provisions"!”

  Night fell without bringing darkness; the great naphtha fires, launching columns of flame 20 meters into the air, lit up the sky for six kilometers around. By the light of this false Sun, they supped cheerfully in the cave, and then got ready to go to bed down on the bearskins brought from the gondola-sloop.

  Only the solicitor and the two sentries stayed awake; everyone else went to sleep. James Codgett prepared his legal documents for use the following day. As for poor César Picolot, having borrowed a pen and ink from the solicitor in order to write the first chapter of his memoirs, entitled Eight Years of Captivity at the North Pole, the long-delayed joy of rescue had disturbed his inspiration and he had set off, armed with a sailor’s carbine, in the hope of getting to the singers from Le Havre, to inform them that their troubles were over.

  The temperature was truly delightful; at midnight, Mandibul, waking up briefly, observed that it was 31 degrees above zero, and only went to sleep again after having inscribed that extraordinary figure in his notebook.

  At 6 a.m., four rifle-shots fired some distance away woke everyone up. Farandoul leapt up from his bearskins and bumped into Mandibul in the darkness.

  “What?” he cried. “What’s this? What profound darkness! The naptha fires….”

  “Extinguished ten minutes ago,” replied the sailor on guard.

  “Oh! That doesn’t bode anything good. The Governor must be planning some surprise—those fires have burned without interruption for eight years. Light a lantern, quickly—the Sun won’t rise until quarter past noon, so we still have six hours of night before us.”114

  At the same moment, a further dozen rifle-shots rang out and a number of shadows appeared, running through the rocks.”

  The sailors pounced on their carbines. One of the shadows perceived the movement. “Don’t fire!” it cried. “It’s me and them!” It was the voice of César Picolot.

  A man and seven women, exhausted and breathless, leapt into the middle of the camp and let themselves fall on to the bearskins.

  “Safe! They’re safe!” cried César Picolot, collecting himself. “Safe for the moment, at least, for…”

  “Come on, what’s happening, and why have the naphtha fires gone out?” Farandoul demanded, sharply.

  “Thanks be to God, here they are, safe!” replied César, entirely in the grip of his joy. “Here they are, Messieurs, the unfortunates of the Trouville ferry, the eminent lyric artistes of the Le Havre café concerts, Mesdames Angelo, Stanislas, Léa d’Arcis (sur Aube), Bichart, Antonia, Judith and Henriette d’Ingouville, whom all lovers of art are undoubtedly mourning, even today, along the entire coast of Normandy. I arrived in time…”

  “What’s happening?” Farandoul repeated. “Tell us!”

  “Simply this: Governor Hatteras is evacuating the Island of the Pole, along with his pirates, Instead of settling matters, the arrival of Madame Hatteras has ruined everything. Hatteras only asked for time yesterday to prepare his flight. One group of pirates has been loading bales and provisions on to his yacht, while the others, under the direction of the Governor himself, were working on a clandestine task….”

  “The naphtha wells?” cried Farandoul.

  “You’ve guessed it! The pirates are diverting the wells. Five or six hours of work were sufficient; the wells of naphtha now empty into the sea and the Island of the Pole has become the domain of darkness again.”

  “And of cold! This artificial temperature, maintained by the naphtha fires, will soon decrease, and the frightful cold will return!”

  “By now,” César went on, “the Governor and his pirates will be embarked. At the moment when the naphtha fires went out, I succeeded, by courtesy of the darkness, in stealing a few of their victims. The others were already aboard; it was then that the pirates fired several rifle-shots at me….”

  César interrupted himself abruptly. Four magnetic buoys landed on the shore and four mariners emerged from them, armed to the teeth. They were the men left to guard the gondola-sloop; alarmed by the pirates’ rifle fire they had set out to sea to come to their friends’ rescue.

  “Mille tonnerres!” cried Farandoul. “The gondola-sloop is no longer guarded, and if Hatteras…”

  A dazzling light suddenly lit up at sea, near the line of breakers, and a frightful explosion rent the air.

  “The gondola-sloop!” cried all the mariners, tearing their hair.

  It was the gondola-sloop that had exploded! By the light of the explosion, everyone could see the masts of another vessel—Hatteras’s yacht—some distance away, moving off under full steam.

  What a catastrophe! No more ship and no more resources! With the naphtha wells diverted, the cold would return. The infernal Hatteras, seeing his secret discovered, permitting the Island of the Pole to fall into the hands of the bold mariners, had annihilated everything, including food-supplies and accommodation. He had put out the island’s fires, which were the only things rendering a sojourn practicable, and, to rob his victims of any other means of return, he had blown up the ship that had brought them as he left.

  The most desperate of all of them was the unfortunate César Picolot. All hope of his ever seeing Le Havre again seemed lost, alas! The terrible cold of the Pole would seize its prey; the air was freshening already and the gentle breeze of a little while ago had transformed into a bitter wind that was forcing all of them to blow on their fingers.

  “Uh oh!” said Mandibul, on consulting his thermometer.

  “Well?” asked Farandoul. “It’s getting lower, isn’t it?”

  “Fichtre!” replied Mandibul. “Thirty degrees lower, to be exact. It’s no more than three degrees above zero.”

  “That’s very quick! Have we enough bearskins for everyone? Yes? Very good! Let’s make sure we don’t freeze. We need to keep clear heads if we’re to get out of this; the main thing is not to catch chilblains in our imagination. Now, let’s head for Hatteras’s houses and install ourselves there so that we can combat the cold.”

  The entire troop, guided by César Picolot, set off in the direction of Hatteras Houe, guided by the flickering light of a lantern. The sense of smell alone would have been sufficient to get them there; as they advanced further, a frightful odor of burning spread through the atmosphere, and revealed only too clearly, alas, the destruction wrought by the Governor.

  The unfortunate lyrical artistes, so cruelly tried, were shivering beneath their bearskins. As for Mrs. Hatteras, she heaped the weight of her fury upon her unfortunate solicitor, whom she accused of having lost everything by granting the Governor a delay.

  The entire troop, bumping into rocks, rolling among pebbles and slipping on slopes, finally arrived at the pirates’ living quarters. Farandoul made a rapid inspection, lantern in hand. Alas, all as ruin and desolation! The pirates had taken everything they could possible carry and thrown everything that would burn into the naphtha fires. Only the walls remained. Hatteras had not had time to knock them down; he had contented himself with removing the roofs, doors and windows. All the provisions had, of course, disappeared.

  “Cold and famine!” moaned the lyrical artistes.

  “No,” said Farandoul, “only the cold is to be feared; the sea will furnish us with our nourishment. Calm down, Mesdames. We’ll eat seals and walruses, and drink whale-oil! Let’s see—how many degrees on the thermometer?”

  Mandibul moved the lantern closer to the thermometer in his belt. “Eight degrees below zero! The North Pole’s cooling down quickly!”

  “Come on!” Farandoul went on. “To work, lads—we need a domicile, and quickly, or we’ll be frozen within two hours!”

  The least damaged corne
r of Hatteras’s house was selected as a shelter and the mariners set about making it a little more comfortable, almost groping their way. With a little wood that had escaped destruction, they improvised a roof of sorts and stopped up the window-openings. Every quarter of an hour, Mandibul consulted his watch. First he found 13 degrees below zero, then 17, then 28, then 31, 33, and finally 41!

  When the Sun appeared, at 12:15 a.m., the thermometer had fallen another seven or eight degrees. The unfortunate castaways were almost frozen in spite of the fire they had maintained, with great difficulty, with few pieces of wood collected from here and there.

  What desolation appeared to them in daylight! All the vegetation that the heat maintained by the naphtha fires had nursed had been wiped out by the cold of that terrible night; the tall grass, the lianas and the nascent coconut trees were stiff with frost; everything was dead.

  “Quickly!” Farandoul ordered. “Let’s take advantage of the few hours of daylight to cut wood and brushwood, and heap it up in our lodgings!”

  Everyone, including Mrs. Hatteras and the lyrical artistes, set to work, knife or hatchet in hand. Unfortunately, the vegetation had not had the time to become very sturdy; there were more leaves than wood. In three hours, it had all been harvested. The island soon presented nothing but a denuded plateau in the midst of a rocky chaos.

  As night fell, they went back into the uncomfortable cabin to warm themselves up with a good flame.

  “What about a meal? We haven’t eaten yet,” observed the ladies.

  “We’ll provide one now,” replied our hero. “Light the fire; we’re going seal-hunting.”

  “No need! No need!” cried César Picolot. “I’ll go call some of my pupils, and bring them here. It’s a betrayal, but, at the end of the day, he who doesn’t desire to go hungry desires the means…let’s see: how many seals make a meal? There are 30 of us; two should suffice, it seems to me. Right—I’ll get two fat and healthy pupils. I’ll bring them here immediately.”

  “What about vegetables?” asked one of the German scientists.

  “Leguminous plants are not abundant, alas; I can only offer you a salad of frozen leaves.”

  The two pupils of César Picolot, ex-professor of the Lycée du Havre, might have been remarkable in terms of their intelligence and moral qualities, but they left much to be desired from a purely gastronomic point of view. They were fat, but tough. They were roasted on a spit and carved up very swiftly with swords. Nothing was wasted; the ladies complained a great deal, but had to admit, in the final analysis, that the oily nourishment was filling.

  Two men were given responsibility for maintaining the fire with brushwood and the rest of the company went to sleep rolled up in bearskins. Mandibul woke up in the middle of the night, his legs numb with cold. He ran to his thermometer, hanging from the wall. In spite of the infernal fire maintained within the room, it marked 23 degrees below zero.

  “Damn! Damn!” he said, going back to sleep.

  At 8 a.m., César Picolot went outside briefly and woke everyone up by returning with two more of his pupils.

  “It’s breakfast,” he said. “I’ve catered for all tastes by bringing you one fat one and one thin one.”

  While everyone was busy with César Picolot’s pupils, Farandoul and Mandibul went out to see how much combustible material remained. The stock was considerably depleted, and it was obvious that it would all be consumed in two days.

  “No fire during the day!” Farandoul said, when he went back in. “We can only have one by night; that will make our fuel-supply last longer. That way, we’ll have enough for four days. It’s necessary, therefore, that within four times twenty-four hours we have to find a way of leaving this inhospitable island.”

  “Well, what about the buoys that brought us?”

  “Impossible—they’re magnetic, they’ll never be able to get away from the pole.”

  “What can we do, then?”

  “Build a raft, if we can find the materials. We’ve no other chance of salvation. We’ll go to investigate. During that interval, make sure you don’t let yourselves freeze—replace the fire with gymnastics.”

  Farandoul and Mandibul made a tour of the island, but, in spite of all their research, only discovered a few items of wreckage, a few fragments of masts with which they could hardly construct a raft big enough to accommodate everyone. No matter; if necessary, the demolished electric buoys could furnish a few further materials, as could the fabric of Hatteras House and a piano that Hatteras had left behind.

  On retuning, our two friends found the entire crew in the process of warming themselves up with obligatory gymnastics. Kirkson was carrying two ladies with his arms outstretched; the solicitor Codgett was teaching César Picolot to box; everyone was moving about as much as possible, under the exacting instructions of Tournesol, who was not giving anyone time to rest.

  After having eaten two more of César Picolot’s pupils, they set to work. Even the ladies worked actively on the construction of the life-raft. Farandoul had ordered that, not for lack of gallantry, but because they could only live in the terrible atmosphere of the North Pole in a condition of energetic activity, without a moment’s rest.

  Carrying planks of shoulders, moving yardarms and fragments of masts and plying hatchets was healthy, but tiring. That evening, when the raft was far enough advanced, it was necessary to return to gymnastics while awaiting the fire.

  In spite of the 50 degrees of frost that the Pole enjoyed, the sea, continually agitated and warmed by the great current of the Gulf Stream, kept it almost free of ice. They could leave; Farandoul’s plan was to abandon themselves to the current and descend with it in the direction of less desolate regions, where there might be a chance of encountering some whaling-ship.

  By the first light of dawn the following day—which is to say, about noon—the raft was taken to the shore. It was very small; they would be very cramped, but would have to be content. The steam-buoy was, however, usable. Farandoul was counting on it to tow the raft outside the island’s girdle of reefs, and to assist their progress for as long as the small amount of coal saved from the destruction of the gondola-sloop lasted. They also took—with great difficulty, since they had to drag them away from the Island of the Pole—a few iron buoys. They were a hindrance at first, but might subsequently be able, once the action of the pole was no longer sensible, to render important services to the castaways.

  Everyone worked courageously to hasten the moment of departure; an almost-sealed shelter was established on top of the raft’s planking with the roof of Hatteras House, and César Picolot brought 30 of his pupils, which were attached to the front of the raft, with a beam on which they could rest from time to time. At 2 p.m., everything was ready. They had one more hour of daylight; it was necessary to take advantage of it to get out of the reefs.

  Immediately before embarkation, Farandoul and a few men returned to Hatteras House; the others were surprised to see them come back with two barrels that they did not recognize. It was a precious find: two barrels of rum from Hatteras’s stores, which Farandoul had discovered in a hidey-hole. Everyone clapped; several empty barrels, found in the same store-room, served to consolidate the raft.

  The steam-buoy was heated up; everything was ready.

  “All aboard!” cried Farandoul.

  After an effortful hour, the fragile raft finally succeeded in getting through the redoubtable line of reefs, and the steam-buoy was able to draw them at top speed on the waters of the Gulf Stream. A large tot of rum was poured for the whole crew by way of rejoicing, and there was talk of sacrificing two of César Picolot’s pupils for the evening meal.

  They had departed! That fatal isle, that frightful North Pole that might have been the tomb of so many brave men, thanks to the treason of Captain Hatteras, had already disappeared over the horizon. But all was not settled. Could they battle the ice-field and the polar cold with such feeble means, with a raft so cramped and a shelter of such problematic solidar
ity? The first night was terrible; no one could sleep, and Farandoul had to order the initiation of a general boxing tournament to avoid an imminent congelation of the unfortunate navigators.

  The only bearable post was aboard the steam-buoy, huddled against the boiler; there one was one frozen on one side and roasted on the other. Each of the raft’s passengers occupied that post in turns. Unfortunately the cold intensified in the morning, and great misfortune seemed imminent. Gymnastics and boxing no longer had much effect, and in any case, everyone was injured as a result of the day’s exercises. Almost every nose seemed to be damaged, either by boxing or by frost.

  There was not a moment to lose. Farandoul had a barrel of rum emptied into one of the iron buoys brought as a precaution, and set fire to the liquid—with some difficulty, for the flames of the matches froze as soon as it was exposed to the air. Finally, the rum caught alight.

  What joy! They came back to life; the blood began to circulate. The most badly-injured, liberally sprinkled, rapidly defrosted without deterioration. Only James Codgett, Mrs. Hatteras’s solicitor, nearly lost the most beautiful ornament of his face—an aquiline nose that was, quite rightly, his pride and joy—but a generous ladleful of flaming punch saved the unfortunate organ. James Codgett had the joy of feeling reborn—slightly burned but alive.

  The joy of our poor castaways did not last long. The punch had preserved them from an immediate congelation, but while they savored it externally and internally, another danger just as terrible was threatening them: gigantic icebergs, which the mariners had not noticed, were advancing towards the raft.

  In the midst of that profound darkness, the flames of the punch suddenly illuminated the horrible jagged masses of ice-mountains to port and starboard: enormous blocks whose summits, bristling with 1000 peaks like fantastic steeples, were lost in the intense blackness of the sky.