The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  The banker went slightly pale, but did not manifest any surprise.

  “Have you the funds?” Farandoul demanded.

  “No bank, however well fortified, ever has 54 million coins in its coffers,” the banker replied, evasively.

  “I’ll give you until tomorrow,” Farandoul said.

  “Impossible, sir! Besides, we must have the signature of my friend Bora-Bora, the company’s chief executive. He should have told you that when he sent you to collect...”

  “He didn’t send us. We’re the ones in control of the business...”

  “Ventre de phoque,10 you’ll settle up, you old villain!” cried the conciliatory Mandibul.

  “No signature, no money,” declared the banker, flatly.

  “In that case, we’ll take it to court,” Farandoul calmly replied. And that same day, the suit was launched, under the auspices of the Bornean authorities. Farandoul was worried. Evidently, Bora-Bora had warned the banker; perhaps he was in Borneo himself, lying in wait for an opportunity to get his hands on La Belle Léocadie again. They had to keep their eyes open, as Mandibul put it.

  The Léocadie’s sailors, knowing that they had to watch over their fortune, were on their guard—but what could they do if they were attacked some day and overwhelmed by superior forces?

  Farandoul understood that the case might drag on for a long time. Justice in the Sultanate of Borneo might perhaps be corrupted, the pirates having friends and accomplices—and who could tell whether the Sultan might not be glad to appropriate the cash-box himself, in order to settle the case?

  He judged it politic to recruit to his interests a man who was all-powerful in the sultan’s court. This person, for a modest commission of 20%, committed himself to watch over the case and to do everything that circumstances permitted to favor the interests of La Belle Léocadie. He made no secret of the fact that the thing might be long-drawn-out, and ended up by advising Farandoul to make himself scarce during the negotiations. Farandoul appreciated the soundness of this advice; after having given power of attorney to his agent, he set sail on the next clear night.

  “Friends,” Captain Farandoul said to his sailors, “we’re taking a holiday; we’ll come back again when the case has reached a successful conclusion.”

  Everyone applauded.

  Captain Farandoul’s intention was to leave those hostile latitudes and to sail via the sea of Java, the Banda Sea and the Torres Strait towards the isles of Polynesia. He thought of the isle where he had spent his infancy, and said to himself that since Providence had given him the leisure-time, he could not employ it better than by searching for his adoptive family.

  The late lamented Captain Lastic had often told him that he had picked him up not far from the Tongan archipelago, and it was to that region that Farandoul intended to direct his research. He told himself that it was impossible that he would be unable to rediscover his island—in the absence of any other indicator his heart would serve as his compass.

  In the meantime, a vigilant watch was kept—but there was no trace of pirates on the horizon.

  When La Belle Léocadie had passed between the New Hebrides and the Solomon islands, and set a new heading due east, Farandoul, thinking that there was nothing more to fear, gave himself over entirely to his search. A course was set for every island sighted by the lookout, at least until it was found to be inhabited. Thus it was that, one day, La Belle Léocadie arrived at an island that was absolutely deserted, and not marked on the map. As with the Isle of Monkeys, its shores were defended by a barrier reef, but when that barrier was crossed the sea was absolutely calm, permitting the anchor to be lowered in perfect safety.

  The rocky cliffs of the coastline were interrupted by beaches where the coconut-palms descended as far as the sands. Beyond the palms were fleecy hills covered with the most luxurious vegetation. An immense virginal forest covered the island as far as the eye could see, save for the upper slopes of a volcanic peak, which projected 250 meters above sea-level. A narrow river snaked through the woods, its limpid and murmurous waters gushing out into the ocean, across a beach of the finest sand. All around the island, within a few meters of the shore, the terrain became precipitate, as if the isle itself were merely the summit of a mountain emerging from the waves.

  The steepness of the sea-bed allowed La Belle Léocadie to drop anchor very close to shore. It also gave Farandoul the idea of profiting from the tranquil harbor and the resources that the hospitable coast was sure to furnish in order to make a few necessary repairs to the three-master.

  The ship was solidly established on the beach, and the caulkers and carpenters set to work under the direction of Lieutenant Mandibul. Saturnin Farandoul and the rest of the crew devoted themselves to the exploration of the island. Although Saturnin had observed that its flora was very similar to that of the Isle of Monkeys, he had quickly recognized that it could not be the place where he had spent his infancy. Although there were certain points of resemblance in its general configuration, as seen from a distance, the vague similarities disappeared as soon as they passed through the rocks.

  The island seemed to be uninhabited; no tribes of monkeys haunted the forest. Other animals—including kangaroos and opossums—hopped away into the undergrowth, and innumerable tortoises of giant proportions were walking slowly along the river banks. These tortoises had, over time, hollowed out veritable pathways between the mountain and the coast.

  While Farandoul was pleased to devote himself to the business of exploration, the sailors amused themselves by playing every possible trick on the poor tortoises, except for that of making a succulent daily soup. When they surprised the tortoises on the bank, the sailors, passing sticks under their bellies, turned them on their backs and left them there in distress, kicking their legs in a comical fashion.

  This pleasantry had the result of reducing the entire crew to tears of laughter. Able-Seaman Kirkson, a pure-blooded Englishman with a passion for racing, who did not often have the chance to indulge his passion while on ocean voyages, took the opportunity to improvise tortoise races. He required no more, in order to organize derbies of this new kind, than to happen upon a few tortoises travelling together. The chelonians were brought into line by force of arms, sailors leapt upon their carapaces at a prearranged signal, and the race was on. Equilibrium was difficult to maintain; some of the makeshift jockeys fell off, while others collapsed into a sitting position on animals which retracted their heads in fear. The man who remained standing longest won, and pocketed the bets.

  On the slope of the mountain, Captain Farandoul had discovered the entrance to a spacious grotto, whose tunnels and ramifications could only be explored with torches. On that side, the mountain was quite steep. The cave’s broad mouth, overlooking the blue of the sea, opened on to a sort of platform at the summit of a crag looming over a damp ravine, where hundreds of tortoises were constantly crowding.

  We shall see how useful this discovery was to the brave mariners in the midst of the complications in which they were soon to be embroiled!

  The repairs to La Belle Léocadie had been effectively carried out, and the handsome three-master was as good as new, ready to put out to sea again. The sailors, after a final stroll in the forest, were relaxing on the grassy slopes of a hillock in the lowest foothills of the central peak, some distance away from the beach where La Belle Léocadie still rested on her keel.

  Captain Farandoul, lost in thought, had wandered up to the crest of the hill, from which the entire outline of the coast, with its sharp promontories and deep creeks, could be seen. He had been standing at the summit for several minutes staring into space when he suddenly lowered his gaze towards the coast.

  Farandoul went pale. He thought he was dreaming—but no! He rubbed his eyes and let out an exclamation. A veritable tide of Malay canoes was strewn upon the sea, as rapid and as sinister as a flock of vultures. More were appearing by the minute, doubling one of the island’s capes some 1500 meters from the hill on which Farando
ul stood.

  In response to the Captain’s cry, the sailors had hastened to their feet and were looking at the innumerable canoes with stupefaction. The vessels were becoming more numerous with every passing moment, seemingly following the strategy of hugging the coast, so that they would have the least possible exposure to the open sea.

  “It’s Bora-Bora, beyond the shadow of a doubt!” Farandoul said, in the end. Turning to his sailors, he cried: “Forward! To La Belle Léocadie! We must warn our friends!”

  The entire company filed into the forest in the direction of the ship. Thoughts crowded hurriedly into Farandoul’s mind. The impossibility of saving La Belle Léocadie seemed obvious. At sea, it would have been possible to make a fight of it; run aground as she was, though, she could not even serve as a citadel for the mariners.

  “The cave will be our salvation!” Farandoul said, as he ran. “We’ll take all the weapons from La Belle Léocadie and take refuge there.”

  Breathlessly, they came in sight of the ship. Lieutenant Mandibul and his men were asleep in the shade, but they leapt to their feet when they heard their companions running towards them.

  “To arms!” said Farandoul. “We’re under attack—the pirates are here! Grab everything you can carry and climb up to the cave.”

  “Ventre de phoque! But can’t we fight here?”

  “Impossible, Lieutenant. There are at least 600 of them! They’ll be here within the hour—we haven’t time...”

  Everyone went to work without further explanation. Everything that it was possible to carry—weapons, powder, camping equipment—was taken up. The first canoes were rounding the point of the little bay when Farandoul left the ship. The pirates shouted excitedly at the sight of the three-master, and hastened their progress.

  “Quickly!” said Farandoul. “Let’s get ready for them.”

  The sailors hurriedly deposited everything that they had saved within the cave. Standing on the little platform, they shook their fists at the pirates who were visible on the shore, swarming like ants around La Belle Léocadie.

  “No time to lose, lads,” Farandoul shouted. “Let’s prepare our defenses.”

  We have observed that the grotto pierced the mountain above a rather steep ravine. Scaling the slope would be difficult, in the face of several carefully disposed carbines, but to repel the assailants it was necessary to establish some cover on the platform—the weak point of their fortress. Farandoul looked around urgently, and immediately caught sight of a few blocks of stone which might be used to form a parapet. Alas, he was soon convinced of the impossibility of extracting the smallest of them without long hard labor, which would not want for interruption by the corsairs.

  What was he to do? Farandoul, leaning over the ravine full of tortoises, had a flash of inspiration. The tortoises could be used as a means of fortification.

  Two men descended into the ravine. As they approached, the tortoises retreated into their shells and did not budge. The two mariners rapidly passed ropes, which had been thrown down from above, beneath the bellies of the largest tortoise, making a seaman’s knot to prevent the rope from slipping.

  “Pull!”

  In response to this signal, vigorous arms lifted up the poor tortoise, which was terrified to find itself borne aloft. Once arrived at the top, it was laid on its back, and the rope was thrown back down to the men in the ravine.

  Thirty tortoises were sent up in succession and laid on their backs, placed one atop another with an artistry proving that Farandoul possessed a genius for fortification. To prevent the rampart from collapsing, a number of sturdy stakes were wedged into the rock, to which ropes were attached before being tightly knotted around each carapace.

  The two men in the ravine had scarcely climbed up again when the pirates made their move. A hundred men set off together to climb the mountain.

  “Let them get as far as the ravine,” Farandoul said, “and don’t fire unless you’re sure of your shot.”

  The gaps between the tortoises formed natural loopholes, through which the men of La Belle Léocadie, with rifles in hand, watched the pirates advancing.

  “Bigre de bagasse!” 11 murmured the southerner Tournesol, a seaman first-class. “There’s every possible color there.”

  Indeed, yellow men from Formosa were discernible among the copper-colored Malays, along with black dayaks from Borneo and various half-breeds without any distinguishable nationality. Their armaments were just as varied; there were long Muslim rifles, Portuguese blunderbusses, spears, bows and pistols in addition to the familiar arsenal of daggers and Malay krises.

  Lieutenant Mandibul nudged Farandoul’s elbow. “Look, Captain! There’s that beggar Bora-Bora. I recognize his big red turban.”

  “It’s him all right,” Farandoul replied. “The brigand’s keeping out of the way, directing the attack without exposing himself.”

  After a pause of several minutes, Farandoul called his men to attention. “Here they come!”

  The pirates had climbed to within 30 meters, quite bemused not to have been greeted with rifle-fire. Thinking, in consequence, that the mariners had not been able to carry their weapons with them, they were grouping to mount an assault, howling horribly.

  “Fire!” cried Farandoul.

  Fifteen rifle-shots were discharged. It was like a broadside; a terrible collapsed mass rolled down the mountainside, the dead and the wounded carrying those who had not been wounded along with them. The howling redoubled, this time caused by pain and fear.

  Bora-Bora, leaping about like a demon, rallied his men behind a clump of trees.

  “While we have a moment’s respite,” Farandoul said, “we have to think about food. We can’t eat our rampart, so we must have more tortoises for our larder, and sufficient quantities of grass to nourish them. Someone has to go back down into the ravine to get tortoises and hoist them up at the least exposed spot, while four of our best shots provide them with covering fire.

  The pirates perceived this maneuver from a distance, and a few moved to prevent it. A few well-directed bullets caused them to make their way back to those who had not been felled.

  The tortoise-hoisting operation worked out marvelously. Some 30 tortoises were stacked up in the cave in less than an hour, and the men climbed back up without any accident befalling them.

  Meanwhile, the pirates, huddling in the shelter of a clump of trees, seemed to be preparing themselves for a new and more vigorous attack. In the distance, more could be seen dragging their canoes aground to either side of La Belle Léocadie. Sturdier Malay boats were mingled with them closer to the shore—and all the crews, as soon as they were disembarked, came to swell the ranks of Bora-Bora’s army, brandishing their weapons.

  It was indeed a veritable army, which Farandoul estimated at 700 or 800 men. Bora-Bora seemed determined to capture the sailors’ citadel no matter what the cost. While he formed his best men—the Malays—into an assault column, he posted others as snipers to harass the besieged men from every side. The Dayaks, armed with ironwood bows, were creeping among the rocks in search of advantageous positions, while other pirates, the Formosans, were opening fire from such a long range that the mariners judged it useless to respond.

  The whistling bullets struck the carapaces with dry clicks, at which the armored heads of the tortoises emerged momentarily before immediately withdrawing—especially when a mariner, lurking behind his loophole, found a good opportunity to direct a bullet at some overly audacious Dayak. The poor tortoises, terrified by these flashes of fire and thunderous detonations, attempted to turn somersaults, which made the rampart ripple with movement.

  Farandoul told his men to concentrate their fire on those Dayaks whose upward-directed arrows might fall within the citadel; not one of these savages came close enough to the cave to reach its defenders.

  Suddenly, a howl let loose by 600 voices burst forth at the foot of the mountain. Bora-Bora was launching the bulk of his forces upon the blockade.

  Six hundre
d demons climbed the escarpment with a resolution that testified to their determination to crush and finish off the 15 besieged men by sheer weight of numbers.

  “Save your ammunition, and don’t fire unless the shot’s certain,” said Farandoul, mopping sweat from his brow.

  More than 50 Malays had already rolled to the bottom of the slope, the dead and wounded making a ladder of sorts for the others. The besieged men soon saw them a few meters from the platform: hideous, covered in blood, with rifles in their hands and daggers in their teeth.

  “Bigre de bagasse, this is getting worse!” cried Tournesol, “Step on up, though—we’ll lay a few more carcasses down before they get past!”

  “Ventre de phoque!” Mandibul added. “I won’t go to pieces before that beggar Bora-Bora!”

  The howls of the corsairs were redoubled. They believed that their victory was certain. The citadel was, in fact, in serious danger—a few more minutes, and they would reach the platform. Excited by the hope of carnage, they pressed forward in ever greater numbers.

  “Keep firing! Watch out!” Farandoul commanded, having observed the progress of the attackers for some minutes without shooting. Then, taking his knife, he quickly cut through several ropes.

  “Do as I do, shipmates! All together... push hard!” Matching actions to his words, he set his rifle down and threw himself against the rank of tortoises that formed the crown of the rampart. All those comprising it were dislodged.

  The entire tier collapsed; ten tortoises, each weighing at least 100 kilograms, rolled down on to the pirates, breaking heads and ribs and scouring the wall of the crag within the blink of an eye.

  Before those who had not been overtaken had time to get out of the way, the tortoises comprising the second tier descended upon them like an avalanche, pulverizing everything in their path and rebounding from the rocks to shatter in the midst of the panic-stricken throng.