The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  Makako was fluttering around the buffet; forewarned by one of his officers, he went back into the large drawing-room at the very moment when Lady Arabella asked to be presented to him.

  The patrician beauty of the blonde Englishwoman sparked the enthusiastic admiration of the Colonel like a lightning-bolt. Those huge eyes, that long blonde hair, that tall and slender figure, that aristocratic perfume—everything about her lifted Makako’s heart. Appropriately, the orchestra struck up an intoxicating waltz; Makako wrapped his arms around Lady Arabella’s body, and drew her into the giddy whirl. They were seen passing through every room, moving in time to the whim of the rhythm and revolving tirelessly in the grip of a delirious music. Makako, transported by his excitement, gripped Lady Arabella’s body a little more firmly than was entirely proper, and planted furtive kisses on the one hand that she abandoned to him.

  Lady Arabella seemed bent on ensuring that the fervent quadrumane Colonel lost his head completely. Lovingly supported on his arm, she waltzed with him all night. Ten waltzes, 15 waltzes, 30 waltzes were granted to him. The host had given orders to the orchestra, which—without stopping, except to down pints of liquid—rolled out interminable musical fantasies. Long after the other dancers were tired out, their panting partners getting their breath back on the divans, Makako was still waltzing!

  The conductor of the orchestra had received reinforcements to replace those of his men who had fallen on the battlefield, but the blonde Englishwoman seemed indefatigable, and the same smile was perpetually fluttering upon her lips.

  England’s agents were swarming everywhere; observers, more attentive than the quadrumanes, had quickly cottoned on to a number of secret signals—a few furtive glances exchanged in passing between Lady Arabella and certain suspicious individuals. The work of demoralization begun several months earlier was making new and rapid progress.

  Some hours after the ball, Makako, irresistibly seduced, presented himself at Lady Arabella Cardigan’s house, to lay his devotion and his sword at her feet. The conspirators were there; a conference ensued in which the beautiful eyes of Lady Arabella played a leading role in the action. When they separated, Makako was totally committed to overthrow Saturnin I and usurp his throne, which the inflamed Colonel hoped to share with the blonde lady.

  What a dream! Into what rapturous depths had the ambitious quadrumane been plunged! Absolute master of Australia, he would escort her majesty to Europe, of which he had heard such tales—to that England, where Lady Arabella Cardigan had estates and castles. He had to take action; the agents of England had, so to speak, drawn him a plan.

  Profiting from the fact that the army was concentrated at Port Philip, it was necessary to work by every possible means, within a few days, to seize the bimane Generals—and, most important of all, Saturnin’s five foster-brothers, whose influence was capable of putting an end to the rebellion. That having been accomplished, the irresistible Makako, intoxicated by the honeyed words and languorously veiled eyes of Lady Arabella, believed that he was certain to ward off every danger. He even deluded himself that he might remain, England notwithstanding, master of Australia.

  The arrival of Makako at the Port Philip camp was the signal for a renewed outbreak of acts of insubordination. Farandoul and the Generals had done well; they had been able to prevent indiscipline from gradually infecting the best regiments. As England’s agents redoubled their efforts, immense quantities of strong liquor were transported to the troops in improvised canteens by bimane ladies, despite Mandibul’s stern prohibitions. Although access to the encampments and barracks was rigorously forbidden to bimanes, these ladies succeeded in persuading superior officers to accept a few casks of fine liqueurs, under various pretexts—most frequently as patriotic gifts—on several occasions.

  One regiment, which occupied a small redoubt at the end of the line, received in this manner a provision of whisky that it swallowed in haste, in order to make it disappear and avoid any reproaches that Colonel Escoubico might make during his tour of inspection. The result was that within two days the regiment fell dead drunk upon its bastions—and had the Colonel not arrived, the redoubt, deprived of its defenders, could have fallen into English hands. The regiment woke up in the police station, the officers having been cashiered, but this severe treatment did not prevent the same thing happening at another post the following day.

  The English fleet, in the open sea, contented itself with tightly blockading Port Philip, without making any direct attempt upon it. This inaction was what caused Farandoul and Mandibul their greatest anxiety. For what was England waiting before commencing hostilities? The increasing demoralization of the quadrumane army was evidently the work of her secret agents; did she wish to attack only when the fatal work would be completed, when the good and loyal regiments of former times would have turned into an undisciplined and unstable rabble?

  Alas, the wait was not to be a long one.

  Farandoul, kept informed by the reports of his Generals, wanted to react vigorously against the demoralization. To try to recover his old power over the minds of his troops, he summoned the entire army to a grand review on the Port Philip beach, in full view of the English navy. A strict order of the day had to be communicated to the monkeys for the stern repression of all insubordination.

  Beneath the bright morning Sun, the immense beach was covered, as far as the eye could see, with magnificent quadrumane regiments. The chiefs of staff, admonished by the bimane Generals, had done their best to re-establish discipline.

  The sight was truly magnificent. The infantry occupied the center and the cavalry the flanks, following the order of battle adopted by Farandoul: in advance, the regiments of riflemen; in the second rank of the line, the dark mass of monkeys armed with Oceanian clubs; on the right flank, the light kangaroo cavalry, lancers and chasseurs; on the left flank, the heavy cavalry, the giant monkeys of Borneo, also mounted on kangaroos but armed with heavy ironwood clubs.

  Unfortunately, the English fleet having executed a suspicious maneuver in the open sea, Saturnin I was obliged to remove himself to the little fort at Point Rocas in order to observe it.

  The troops under arms put on a good show at first, but towards noon it was necessary to make a distribution of food and refreshments. The quartermaster had orders to convey 300 casks of fresh water—the camp’s daily ration, sent from Melbourne that morning—to the field of the maneuvers. The catering corps being entirely won over by Makako, it had already caused Mandibul great concern, but he had trusted in the surveillance of a few solid officers placed at its head. He was still ignorant of grave disturbances that had broken out in Melbourne, of which these brave officers had been the first victims.

  On their arrival on the plain where the entire army was roasting under the hot Sun, in consequence of the English fleet’s maneuvers, the carriages of the catering corps were greeted by the hurrahs of the thirsty regiments. The distribution was quickly made; every corps had its casks, which were immediately surrounded by soldiers. There was a certain brouhaha while the casks were opened; the quartermaster’s fresh water seemed suspect to a few officers, who did their best to prevent the troops from getting to it. The water was clear and limpid, but its odor was definitely too alcoholic.

  The monkeys, after having tasted it, refused to obey their leaders. There were a few nasty grimaces at the first mouthful, but a second gulp proved the water to be so extraordinarily pleasant that all discipline was forgotten. They jostled one another to obtain a larger share.

  The quartermaster’s fresh water was kirsch! 42

  The hearts of infantry and cavalry alike were uplifted by joy. Despairing of preventing the distribution, the officers joined in, determined to have their share. Soon, the kirsch had flooded the entire field of maneuver, from one end to the other.

  The second part of the infernal plan hatched by the English agents had been put into execution.

  At about 2 p.m.—the English navy having ceased its maneuvers—the Generals and their
staff left the fort. The trumpets and the drums recalled the soldiers to their posts. The officers ran here, there and everywhere, and the regiments reconstituted themselves, after a fashion, but the entire army was in a visibly emotional state. In place of the former neat and tidy straight lines, irregular zigzags spread out. The cavalry, in particular, stood out by virtue of its awful disarray. Great waves made themselves felt along the battle-front. When those on the right of the first rank began to lurch dazedly, the movement spread from one to another until it reached the far end of the line.

  The furious Farandoul set his horse to the gallop. His escort moved off behind him in a whirlwind of dust. The first corps on the right flank was, appropriately enough, Makako’s.

  At the sight of the Farandoulian general staff, Makako’s followers started theatrically. Ear-splitting howls rent the air; the Farandoulian flag was struck, and an immense red banner provided by Lady Arabella was raised in its place. The regiments next in line, seized by the contagion of this example, also dispersed; their leaders, won over by Makako, hastened to rally round the general revolt.

  That was exactly what was happening! The beautiful army formed up on the beach was no longer anything but a confused mass, from which a storm of incoherent cries emerged. The catering corps continued to provide casks of kirsch, which were immediately opened and drained dry by the ardent throats of the delirious quadrumanes. Their leaders, in the middle of the plain, popped the corks of champagne-bottles sent by England. A few bimane men and women circulated among them, apparently stirring up the hideous rebellion.

  A little troop of faithful monkeys had joined the Farandoulian general staff. Their honest figures were colored as much by wrath as profound contempt for the drunken quadrumanes who had sunk to the level of the most degraded bimanes.

  Farandoul and his bimane Generals consulted one another; Farandoul’s foster-brothers wanted to charge the enemy, but Farandoul opposed that course, in order to try to play for time. After a few minutes hesitation, the little troop took the road to the fort again, leaving the rebels to their shameful orgy.

  Nothing remained to Farandoul of his entire army but his bimane Generals, the monkeys of his own isle and a few brave quadrumane leaders who did not want to abandon him, among whom were Ungko and Tapa-Tapa of Sumatra, Wa-Wo-Wa of New Guinea and Nasico of Borneo—400 combatants in all, to hold their own against England and the rebels.

  That same evening, one of Dick Broken’s orderlies arrived breathless at the fort, having run all the way from Melbourne. A revolution had broken out in the city. The bimane insurrection had triumphed; the quadrumane officials had been obliged to flee—and Dick Broken, barricaded in the Governor’s mansion with 200 or 300 monkeys stationed there, was under siege.

  Broken claimed that he could hold out against the insurgents for a fortnight, so Farandoul was not too worried about that. The essential thing was to bring the wayward army back to the path of duty. If it persisted in its rebellion, everything was finished; as soon as it became obedient again, the bimane revolution in Melbourne would be promptly stifled.

  He had to play for time.

  A few monkeys, ashamed of their delinquency, had already come to rally round Farandoul’s flag. The rest continued to drink English liquor by day and by night. The provision of food had become the provision of drink; the catering corps no longer transported anything but liquid nourishment.

  With no more organization and no more exercises, the disorder surpassed anything of which the imagination could dream. Farandoul was counting on that, to some extent, to regain power. His optimism was understandable; monkeys have lively minds, but bad memories. They are excellent creatures, capable and intelligent, but much too frivolous; it was only by making them repeat the same exercise and actions every day that Farandoul had been able to make anything of them. Now they were on their own, idleness and drunkenness—vices formerly unknown to their race—would make them forget everything they had learned. Farandoul’s plan was, therefore, to wait for a week and then to throw himself upon Makako. Once the instigator of the revolt had been punished, and the monkeys returned to the path of duty, they would be able to turn their attention to England. But for that, it was necessary that England made no move either, also waiting for the psychological moment to fall upon the monkeys.

  On the evening of the seventh day, Farandoul made his preparations to engage Makako’s forces as soon as the Sun rose. The loyal monkeys, who had been drilled every day in the handling of rifles and the firing of cannon, were raring to go. Farandoul’s five brothers established them in their positions. As for our hero’s foster-father, two days earlier he had undertaken a mission to the rebel camp, where a few brave officers were ready to declare a counter-pronunciamento.

  The night seemed very long to the monkeys. At 4 a.m., several cannon-shots fired out at sea brought everyone running to the ramparts.

  Damnation! England, forewarned of all Farandoul’s plans by some undetectable spy, had made their move. During the night, six large transport-ships full of Indian troops were secured in position close to the shore, two kilometers from the fort. Formed up facing the fort were six frigates, four armored corvettes, a few dispatch-vessels and two terrible battleships, each of whose turrets was equipped with 40 steel cannon firing 40-kilo shells. The decks of all these ships were cleared for action. The hour of the ultimate battle had struck!

  The rebel camp was in uproar. The monkeys, finally understanding their peril, attempted to organize themselves. Just as Farandoul was wondering whether it might not be too late to get the idea into their heads that they had a common enemy to face, the English fleet opened fire.

  The broadsides fired by the corpulent frigates arrived at the fort with a regularity that did credit to their chronometric gunners. The monkeys, with the courage of desperation, set the fort’s 20 fire-ports thundering. One heavy marine cannon in particular, operated under Mandibul’s orders, worked wonders. One of its shells penetrated the engine-room of the Carnivorous, already tested by the battle of Cape Campbell, and did such damage there that the frigate soon seemed ready to sink like a stone.

  As for the little fort, its excellent construction permitted it to resist the enemy shells without suffering too much damage. Alongside the beach, the transport-ships went on methodically with the business of disembarkation.

  The greatest disorder still reigned within the rebel camp, where 1000 commands clashed with 1000 confused cries. Finally, when the large landing-craft loaded with English, Scottish and Sepoy troops were detached from the transport-ships and were rowed towards the beach, the disorder seemed to reach its peak.

  The defenders of the fort stopped firing for a moment to watch what was happening. Deadly fruits of indiscipline and intemperance! The monkeys, still drunk as they awoke, sought in vain to take up their combat positions. Some put their uniforms on backwards, others tried to remind one another of the 12 stages of a charge. Useless effort! Inexpressible confusion! Many, having become wild again, ran on all fours, giving out stupid cries. Warriors of Geelong, Cheep Hill and Melbourne, where art thou?

  Makako sought ideas in champagne. O shame! He scratched his forehead and his hindquarters—and all of his staff, by force of their ancient instinct of imitation, promptly set about doing likewise!

  Meanwhile, the long-boats reached the shore; the companies they landed fell upon the monkeys who attempted to oppose them there, and drove them back without any difficulty.

  The long-boats maintained a continual coming-and-going between the ships and the shore, and 8000 English troops were soon on the ground—8000 brave men burning to avenge the unexpected disasters of the preceding year. Finally, at a signal from the Admiral’s frigate, musicians struck up God Save The Queen and the English threw themselves forward in two columns to attack the quadrumane positions.

  Farandoul and his anxious monkeys waited for Makako’s batteries to overwhelm the redcoats and the highlanders, but the cannons remained mute. Profiting from the quadrumanes’ hesi
tation, the English columns scaled the batteries.

  The frigates’ smoke veiled the battlefield for an instant, but a gust of wind dissipated it. Farandoul went pale. Curses! All his work had come to nothing in the end—the monkeys of Cheep Hill were fleeing instead of fighting!

  It was not even a battle; it was a horrible, panic-stricken rout.

  Confusion, upheaval, massacre! No more regiments, no more officers, no more soldiers!

  The weapons of 40,000 monkeys litter the ground. The cavalry, instead of protecting the retreat, leap from the backs of their kangaroos to climb trees. Fugitives hang in clusters from the branches of eucalyptus and gum-trees, the highlanders chasing them into the forest while the English take possession of their baggage.

  Of all Makako’s army, only two companies of monkeys have refused to follow the example of their comrades and are holding firm against the English. These brave fellows are aggregated in front of the quartermaster’s hut, protected by entrenchments of barrels, some full and some empty. To overcome this last obstacle, the English dispatch an elite regiment. The charge is sounded, the battle-cries burst forth, and the redcoats scale the barricades of casks with a furious impetuosity.

  Farandoul and his mariners wait for events to take a dramatic turn—for some act of desperate heroism like that of the bimane grenadiers at Waterloo.

  The English, brandishing their bayonets and howling loudly, are at the top of the entrenchment... They hesitate, and pause... What is happening?