The scene of the defendant’s delinquencies being, unfortunately, too distant for the High Court to be able to transport itself there by commission, the undersigned solicitor has been obliged to limit himself to collecting the irrefutable attestations of the honorable mariners and travelers who observed them as he did—attestations that will be found further on. It is in an island unknown to the Office of the Admiralty and situated at the Pole of the northern hemisphere that the undersigned solicitor, accompanied by the petitioner, has been able to recover the proofs necessary to the granting of the divorce. The honorable defender was there, reigning as lord and master over a very mixed population, formed partly of men fully worthy of the title of pirates and partly of unfortunate lyrical artistes kidnapped by the honorable defender and sequestered by him.
The undersigned solicitor declares that the matrimonial rights of Mrs. Hatteras have been totally violated by the defender and concludes by asking the High Court to grant a divorce in favor of the petitioner.
James Codgett,
Solicitor
presently at sea, in the vicinity of the Island of the Pole.
Certified and signed by us, mariners forming part of the French expedition to the North Pole:
Mandibul had been reading over Mrs. Hatteras’s shoulder; he seized the pen from the solicitor’s hands and was the first to sign, along with Farandoul. Then he read the statement aloud to the mariners and collected their signatures. Our hero’s foster-father, not knowing how to sign his name, marked the headed paper with a fine cross. The German scientists then attested the perfect verity of the observations and passed the pen to César Picolot, who added a simple line, eloquent in its conciseness:
Certified by us, unfortunate victims of Captain Hatteras.
Artistes of the Alcazar du Havre.
“Thank you,” said Mrs. Hatteras, simply, as she took back the piece of paper.
The solicitor James Codgett was about to put the important attestations in his pocket when Mandibul stopped him. “One moment!” he said. “This document is of capital importance; it’s necessary to make certain of its conservation. Does anyone have a bottle?”
“A bottle of what?” asked Trabadec. “I’ve got one that I picked up on the shore of the Island of the Pole, but it still has a little cognac in it.”
“Drink it and give it to me.”
Trabadec handed over the bottle. Mandibul folded the piece of headed paper neatly, put it into the bottle, replaced the stopper and, warming up what remained of the wax in the flames of the oven, rendered the seal absolutely impermeable. “Now,” he said, “I’ll answer for it. We might be shipwrecked, but the document will be found and will still reach its destination.”
With this delicate business thus concluded, they all resumed blowing on their fingers—for, in spite of the fire still being maintained in the oven, the cold was making itself keenly felt. After consulting the thermometer outside, Farandoul found that it was minus 48 degrees.
“What time is it?” he asked Mandibul.
“Nine o’clock,” the latter replied, “but I don’t know whether it’s 9 a.m. or 9 p.m.”
“It’s evening—we still have another 15 hours of darkness.”
“Damn, that’s a long time! Come on, we must try to sleep. Two men had better stay on watch to maintain the fire.”
“Not without a great deal of difficulty,” said the master cook. “We have enough fuel for an hour—after that, we’ll have to blow on our fingers.”
“What about the herrings? Fire or death! We have the choice…and the choice is made, I think. In the face of that absolute necessity, we must resolve to burn the herrings! Save the little carbon and wood we have left for unforeseen circumstances, then, and keep the fire going with armful of herrings. They’re quite fat, and will burn admirably!”
“Alas,” said Mandibul, “here’s a shoal of herrings that can consider itself unlucky for having run into us.”
The cook, banishing all scruples, carried out Farandoul’s orders and the first herrings crackled on the fire. The unfortunate castaways, rolled up in their bearskins and huddled into a compact mass, slept under the guard of two vestals charged with maintaining the fire.
Were their dreams rose-tinted? We cannot affirm it. In spite of the confidence affected by their leaders, everyone sensed that the situation of proprietors of a shoal of herrings left something to be desired in respect of security.
At about 4 a.m., the navigators were woken up by sharp itching sensations and violent fits of coughing. The itching was caused by chilblains and the coughing by the thick smoke that filled the cabin. They were half frozen and three-quarters asphyxiated!
After rubbing their hands, the unfortunate shipwreck-victims suddenly understood the danger. “Smoked! We’ll be smoked by that herring-fire!” they cried, in chorus.
“No,” said Tournesol, gallantly, “we’ll only turn red.”
The exclamations grew louder. The fire, continually fed by armfuls of herrings, gave out a moderate heat, but was, by way of compensation, belching out swirling clouds of reddish-brown smoke and emitting a frightful odor of grilled fish. The female castaways looked at one another by lantern-light. Within a few hours their faces and hands had taken on quite a marked russet tint.
“He’s right!” they exclaimed. “We’ll be as brown as kippers!”
“We won’t dare show our faces in public!”
“Why did they have to come looking for us at the North Pole? After all, life was bearable there!”
“It’s César Picolot’s fault!”
César Picolot went pale. “O feminine ingratitude!” he cried. “I’m as brown as you are and I’m not complaining. When we disembark, you can say that it’s the tropical Sun, or pass yourself off as Africans!”
“Let’s wait for daylight,” said Farandoul. “We’ll de-smoke ourselves in the open air and replace the fire with vigorous exercise.”
And they all tried to go back to sleep, after having begged the men on guard to moderate the combustion of herrings. Even so, after a few hours they could stand it no longer, and at 7 a.m., they decided to take a stroll outside in spite of the profound darkness.
“Minus 44 degrees,” Mandibul observed. “That’s quite bearable.”
“Let’s go!” cried Farandoul, taking the lead with lantern in hand. “At the double!”
Just then, a splendid aurora borealis suddenly lit up the sky. An intense light appeared on the horizon, grew a little, then soundlessly launched an immense spray of radiance, like ten bouquets of fireworks bursting at the same time, which persisted in their intensity. They could see as plainly as in broad daylight. In the distance, icebergs were bobbing on the sea: great sparkling masses like mountains of diamonds, more densely packed than ever. It was the edge of the great ice-field, the frightful polar ring of ice. They had got over it coming—would they have as much luck crossing it on the return journey?
The mariners were anxious. There was the danger. How would the shoal of herrings get past that obstacle?
“As long as they don’t go underneath it!” murmured Mandibul.
The solicitor James Codgett jumped up and down. “And you protested against the indemnity of 2000 pounds that I claimed for sailing on your shoal of herrings! I’m raising it to 4000!”
“Don’t worry,” said Farandoul. “We shan’t go under the ice-sheet—that’s not the herrings’ habit. Our shoal will go through some pass like the one we discovered on the way in.”
And the entire company, well wrapped-up in their furs, set off at a jog on the backs of the herrings. They were glad to have impermeable boots, for the water came up to their ankles in places. The herrings disconcerted by this little excursion, had dived slightly under the weight of the castaways.
They covered two or three kilometers at a run without encountering anything else on the shoal but the two seals brought by Picolot. They were at the front, neck-deep in herrings. César Picolot had difficulty recognizing them, they had stuffed themselves with s
o much food. As he approached, they paused in levying their tribute from the unfortunate shoal and repeated a few joyful paters and maters.
“Bravo!” said Mandibul, caressing them with his eyes. “That will provide us with a nice roast when we’re tired of fresh herring.”
The rear of the shoal was less tranquil than the front, for more than 100 meters of the extremity they felt numerous somersaults beneath their feet and, in confusion, observed a sort of jostling. It soon stopped, though, and the ground resumed its solidity. The poor herrings of the rear-guard had numerous enemies behind them, large troops of hammerhead sharks were tormenting the shoal and devouring its members by the thousand; porpoises and cod were doing similar damage—but in the swirl of pirates that were rushing upon it in this manner, three or four whales117 were most conspicuous of all in their voracity.
Farandoul and Mandibul went forward as far as possible to assess the situation, and were chagrined to see the harm done by the enormous cetaceans; every time the whales launched themselves at the shoal they swallowed nearly a cubic meter of herrings.
“Damn!” murmured Farandoul. “That might become dangerous. We’ll have to keep an eye on it.”
Following his orders, the entire troop—which could not stop, under the threat of perishing of cold—headed back to the cabin, still at a jog, and came back at the same pace with an empty barrel. The barrel was set down some 30 meters from the extremity of the shoal, to serve as a reference-point, so as to gauge the extent of the ravages caused by the herrings’ exceedingly numerous enemies.
When the aurora borealis suddenly died out, they went back to the cabin in darkness. It was time for breakfast; 200 herrings were only waiting for the castaways before perishing on the grill.
The master cook was smiling; Mandibul saw at the first glance that he was pleased with himself. “You!” he cried. “You’re a rogue—you’ve got a surprise for us! Let’s see, I’ll wager that it’s a matter of some leg of marine veal…”
The master pulled a disdainful face, which meant better than that!—and handed his superior a little piece of slightly greasy paper.
“A menu!” Mandibul exclaimed. “What a fine fellow you are, and what a pity you weren’t the chef aboard the raft of the Medusa!”
The curious castaways gathered around Mandibul, who studied the menu, written and spelled in a very liberal fashion. Finally, he read:
Herring soup.
Smoked herring in cachalot oil.
Herring-egg omelet with marine algae.
Grilled herring.
Herring roes fried in oil, spiced with gunpowder.
Puréed herring.
Small pots of herring-milk cream.
Roe sorbet.
Beverages: Melted snow. Herring-spawn toddy.
“Splendid!” cried the entire company. “Let’s go! To the table!”
It was a manner of speaking, for the table did not exist; everyone sat on the floor and breakfast got under way. The herring soup was found to be delicious, although a little too well-supplied with bones. The herring-egg omelets enjoyed the same success, but what excited the enthusiasm of the diners most was the arrival of the little pots of herring-milk cream. Two loaves of sugar, forgotten by Hatteras, had permitted the chef to make that cream into something intermediate between nectar and ambrosia; it was fine, delicate and fondant.
“Quite simply marvelous,” said Mandibul, summarizing the general opinion. “We must make that herring cream known to the blasé palaces of rich land-dwellers! On our return, we shall introduce it to the Faubourg Saint-Germain and the West End of London!”
There was only one shadow over the scene and one slightly discontented diner. That was Mrs. Hatteras, who nearly choked on a stray bone in the sorbet. Had it not been for Mandibul, who hastened to her assistance, the poor lady might perhaps have perished. The master cook, desolate at the accident, attributed the overlooking of the bone to the negligence one of his assistants and heaped reproaches upon the unfortunate, whom he threatened to deprive of toddy. Mrs. Hatteras, feeling somewhat better, went to some trouble to obtain mercy for him. The master cook felt that his reputation had been compromised and remained severe, but finally forgave him.
Dawn broke as they were finishing the toddies. It was ten minutes to noon; a pale Sun appeared, like an immense dim lantern hanging in the sky, and shone wanly for three hours, after which the dim lantern went out, giving way to the Moon, a timid night-light still half-hidden behind a veil of fog.
“Shall we have a nice siesta?” proposed one of the German scientists, weighed down by the plentiful breakfast.
“Certainly not!” cried Farandoul. “It’s necessary to stimulate the circulation of the blood and breathe the pure air. Off we go, at the double!”
Farandoul was right. It was necessary not to allow the castaways to become numb through inaction; it was necessary to remain active and indulge in violent movement without respite. The female castaways, suppressing a few sighs, got up and followed the mariners; they resumed jogging around the floating and living island. At the front, Picolot’s seals were sleeping with the blissful smiles of satisfied gastronomes. In the rear, the porpoises, hammerheads, cod, cachalots and other whales were continuing their assaults, tormenting the unfortunate herrings. The distance between the barrel and the edge had diminished considerably.
“Wait a minute, though!” murmured Farandoul. “The herrings are our friends; we mustn’t allow them to be devoured like this! We have to defend them!”
“But how?”
“Any way we can, damn it! We have rifles and hatchets…unfortunately, we only have one chloroform bomb—we must try to use it cleverly.”
“That’s right!” howled Tournesol. “Fight! Let’s not allow our herrings to be eaten…by anyone but us!”
They resumed jogging to return to the cabin. They came straight back out again, returning to the rear of the shoal with two iron buoys. As they arrived there, the reference-point barrel had just been reached by the enemy; a cachalot greedier than the rest, seeing this significant prey, disdained the herrings and swallowed it whole. As it seemed somewhat indisposed after this violent effort, Tournesol took advantage of its condition to attack it with hatchet-blows; the frightened cachalot made a violent effort and spat the barrel out, intact, before disappearing beneath the waves.
Farandoul and Mandibul had the buoys carried as far as possible and jumped inside them in order to do battle with the herrings’ enemies. Ropes retained in the mariners’ hands prevented them from drifting away. Cachalots and other whales were soon within their range and blood ran freely; attacked with spear-thrusts to the body, the cetaceans responded with violent blows of their flukes and charges from the depths beneath the buoys. In that crowded environment, though, mixed up with the laggards of the shoal, battalions of porpoises and hammerheads, the cetaceans could not easily maneuver their terrible flukes. At each attack, Farandoul and Mandibul withdrew their whole bodies into the interior and, as the buoys were solidly built, got away with severe jolts.
Meanwhile, the unoccupied men were making sturdy lassos with the ropes and, not being able to fight the fish in the liquid element, lassoed them from a distance after the fashion of gauchos; when they succeeded in catching one, they dragged it on to the shoal by the strength of their arms and killed it swiftly, in spite of the formidable sideswipes launched by the cetaceans’ flukes.
The cachalots, smaller than the other whales, suffered most and lost two or three of their number, mortally wounded; few others, injured to some degree, fell behind in order to recover. The other whales came out of it better, though; spear-thrusts in their thick layers of fat had little effect. On seeing that, Farandoul abandoned his spear and seized the last chloroform bomb. In order not to get in his way, Mandibul climbed back on to the shoal.
Farandoul waited for the whales to attack; just as the largest of the cetaceans came forward with its mouth open to swallow the buoy, Farandoul, pressing the trigger, swiftly threw the bomb
into the gaping maw and signaled to the mariners on the shoal to haul on the retaining rope—a maneuver that they executed immediately.
The enormous whale, having swallowed the chloroform bomb, remained still momentarily, as if stupefied; then, shaken by an interior commotion, it performed a terrible somersault, sending up cataracts of sea-water with its fluke, and, leaping upwards, fell on to the shoal of herrings with frightful violence.
The mariners had no time to retreat. A breach was made in the densely-packed herrings—but the whale, after that terrible effort, suddenly stopped, seemed to be shaken by a few tremors, and finally became completely motionless on the surface of the waves.
Farandoul, emerging from the buoy, slid forward as far as possible and jumped up on the cetacean’s back. After a few minutes’ study, he planted his spear in its flesh and asked for a rope with which to moor the beast.
“It was a strong dose,” he said. “It’s dead. That’s one enemy less and a good provision of oil to boot.”
VII.
Two hours sufficed for the skillful mariners to extract a few barrels of oil from the chloroformed whale without much difficulty. Tournesol declared it excellent. It was a fine windfall for our friends; they would be able to use the oil to fry herrings for meals and it would also make a good provision of light for the interminable polar nights.
As they finished filling the barrels a thick fog suddenly formed, covering the wan polar Sun with a somber veil. Within a few minutes, everything vanished: the sky, the assailants of the herring shoal, and the shoal itself; they could see no further than 25 centimeters. Farandoul, taken by surprise, could not find his lantern to re-light it. The scattered mariners only managed to gather around their superior officers after numerous stumbles and falls; fortunately, the female castaway had not strayed far from the main group. Only the solicitor Codgett lost his way and fell into the open mouth of the chloroformed whale.
The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul Page 61