The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  On waking up the next morning, the travelers were amazed to see a Patagonian encampment 200 meters from their own. The sentries, harassed by fatigue, had not heard anything. They were busy hitching up the covered wagons when two Patagonians on horseback appeared. Farandoul signaled that they should be allowed to approach.

  The two savages advanced as far as the bivouac fire and, with expansive gestures, began a discourse of sorts.

  “Sacrebleu!” said Passepartout. “Do they think we learn Patagonian at school?”

  “Silence,” said Farandoul. “Our friend Horatius Bixby has traveled this way before; he knows their language.”

  “Yes,” said Horatius. “I know a little of the Quichua language. I’ll tell you what they want.”

  The two Indians had dismounted. Standing in front of Farandoul, they explained volubly, gesticulating a great deal and frequently pointing at the ladies who were gathered around them.

  “Damn,” said Horatius, turning to Phileas. “This concerns you specifically. These gentlemen have never seen white women, and have come quite simply to ask permission for their comrades to come to the camp.”

  “Impossible,” said Phileas. “Send them away.”

  “Pardon me,” Farandoul put in, “but let’s not be so abrupt. I’ll give permission, on condition that they come two at a time. Tell them, my dear Bixby, that we’ll be leaving at noon.”

  Horatius Bixby talked to the Patagonians for ten minutes; in the end, an agreement was struck, and the two savages, in accordance with the conclusion reached, approached the ladies. Bixby, Phileas and Farandoul followed them. The two Patagonians seemed quite angelic; they laughed and joked, asking all sorts of questions of the engineer, who answered them as best he could. The ladies laughed a good deal at the Patagonians’s dumbfounded faces, their manners and the silly questions that Bixby translated for them.

  When the two savages remounted their horses to go back to their troop, Mandibul accompanied them. When they arrived, the entire tribe released cries of joy and launched into a frenzied fantasia, the most important warriors departing first to see the white women while Mandibul, having been invited to dinner, remained in their bivouac.

  The morning passed enjoyably. The Patagonians, initially admitted in pairs, soon began to arrive half a dozen at a time. The sight of two black women—saved, to the best of Passepartout’s recollection, in Aden—caused especial bewilderment in all the Patagonians. A few of them, gripped by doubt, tested the solidarity of the color by licking their fingers and drawing crosses on the women’s arms. Their color was fast. One of the chiefs, wanting to offer this entertainment to his family, ran to his camp; he came back with four wives and Lieutenant Mandibul. The Patagonian women were rather genteel, especially the youngest: a robust young woman five feet six inches tall, with hair as dark as a crow’s wing, loaded with necklaces and glass trinkets, who seemed a veritable savage queen, a Venus of the pampas!

  At noon, Farandoul gave the order to depart. The ladies climbed into their covered wagons; farewells were exchanged with the Patagonians, and they left. The Patagonians seemed to conferring with one another. Half an hour later, Farandoul turned round and saw that their new friends had also broken camp and were following in the caravan’s footsteps.

  Seven hours of travel and two leagues of distance was the day’s balance-sheet. The two companies camped in the same place, 100 meters apart. The following day was better employed; they covered four leagues—but when evening came, the Patagonians came to their encampment again and asked to talk to Horatius.

  “That’s that!” cried Phileas Fogg. “They’re inviting themselves to a party, aren’t they?”

  “Bah!” said Mandibul. “You’ve nothing more to say. The introductions have been made.” Mandibul had been fraternizing with the Patagonians for two days. He was on good terms with Molucho, the chief with four wives, and especially with the beautiful Halpa-Talca, the dark-haired Patagonian we have mentioned.

  Far from manifesting the slightest hostility, the Patagonians were very attentive to the travelers; they never approached the caravan without bringing a few presents—mainly foodstuffs, which, by reason of the shortage of provisions, Farandoul gladly accepted. But the increasing number of Patagonians, their visits, their politeness and their obstinacy in following the caravan step by step, made the white men increasingly anxious. Phileas Fogg bit his lip; Passepartout never put down his revolver; only Mandibul appeared perfectly satisfied.

  One evening, when Passepartout took the roll-call, there were only 355 ladies; three young women were missing. Phileas had the roll-call started again, and issued threats against a Patagonian chief who was nearby. Hostilities might have broken out; fortunately, Farandoul winked at Passepartout, who understood and took his time with the roll-call. Farandoul drew away and signaled to three mariners; they hid behind the other ladies in order to answer to the names of the missing women.

  The situation was saved for that evening, but it could not last. Phileas, who was very thoughtful, would soon see through the fraud—and the thefts might continue. The ladies had not been let out of sight and yet the Patagonians, skilful thieves, had succeeded in removing three. The very next day, Phileas ordered a morning roll-call, taken with very particular care. In spite of Farandoul’s objections, he made the ladies file past him one after another. There was no more opportunity for trickery.

  “If only one is still missing,” said Mandibul, “he’ll have his total.”

  In the general preoccupation, no one asked him what the total was; in fact, it was no longer one, or even three ladies who were missing. Only 347 ladies replied to the call; 11 ladies and a wagon had disappeared. Sir Phileas Fogg was about to lapse into one his cold fits of anger, but beforehand, in one last hope, he decided to visit all the covered wagons. Mandibul was writhing with laughter in a corner.

  Phileas and Passepartout had reached the last wagon, without having found any of the missing women, when they were heard to utter cries of joy.

  “At last,” said Farandoul. “One’s been found!”

  “Not at all,” replied Mandibul. “That’s Halpa-Talca!”

  Farandoul did not have time to ask any more questions. Phileas and Passepartout had come back to the center of the camp. Phileas appeared to be very surprised, and his faithful Passepartout was consulting his list with a bewildered expression.

  “Well?” asked Farandoul.

  “Well, we don’t know Madame,” Phileas replied. “I don’t understand any of this.”

  “She’s not on my list,” added Passepartout. “We’ve already had several errors on the minus side, but this is the first time we’ve had one on the plus side!”

  “Don’t torment yourselves,” Mandibul said, gravely, coming forward. “I’m with Madame—or, rather, Madame’s with me. This is Halpa-Talca, a young Patagonian to whom I’ve offered my protection.”

  “Wait!” cried Phileas. “That means, my dear Mr. Mandibul, that you have abducted this young Halpa-Talca. Don’t dispute it. You’ve abducted her, that’s your business; but I’ll save her, that’s mine! I have fixed principles on this point, and 18 evolver bullets to support them…Passepartout?”

  “Monsieur?”

  “Add Madame Halpa-Talca’s name to our list!”

  Mandibul had gone red, then gone pale, and then gone red again. He was about to hurl himself on Phileas when Farandoul intervened again. “Sacrebleu!” he said. “Let’s not cut one another’s throats just as the Patagonians seem to be getting ready to attack us. Look—while we’ve been arguing, they’ve surrounded our camp, brandishing their weapons, as if to stop us moving on.”

  Indeed, 400 or 500 mounted Patagonians were surrounding the camp at close quarters, the warriors gesticulating on their horses, pointing at the covered wagons and howling joyfully.

  “Here comes the offensive,” said Passepartout. “I’ve been expecting it—they’ve scented fresh flesh!”

  Four chiefs, marked out by their feather ornaments an
d their horse’s manes, advanced towards our friends. Farandoul, Phileas and Horace Bixby, the interpreter, went out to meet them.

  In spite of Farandoul’s warnings, Phileas cut the formalities short and opened the discussion violently. “Infamous pirates!” he cried. “I’m an Englishman! You’ve abducted 11 young women under the protection of the British flag! Don’t you know that everything sheltered by His Gracious Majesty’s banner is sacred, you miserable savages?”

  “The 11 women are pretty,” replied one of the chiefs. “Very pretty! And they’re white. The Patagonian warriors have never seen white women before —and, by the Great Spirit, they’re very pleased to have seen the young white women.”

  “What?” cried Phileas, when Bixby had translated the chief’s words for him.

  “Yes, the Great Spirit is good, very good; he loves Patagonian children. He has sent them many white women. The Patagonian warriors ask the white men to give them their young white women. They will be well-treated by the Patagonian warriors; they will marry chiefs. The young black women are also pretty, very pretty; they will also marry chiefs.”

  Sir Phileas Fogg went rigid.

  “It’s nothing unusual,” the chief went on. “The Patagonian warriors have permitted one of the white men to take away Halpa-Talca, one of their young women.”

  In the course of this conference, the Patagonian warriors had been gradually drawing nearer. Fortunately, Farandoul had not taken his eyes off them. When Phileas, beside himself, drew his revolver, the Patagonians let out a great roar and raced forward. With lightning rapidity, Farandoul and Bixby threw themselves on to Phileas and carried him back to the circle of wagons in spite of his protests.

  The sailors were at their posts, only waiting for a signal to open fire. “Not yet!” said Farandoul. “Let’s try to frighten them first. Fire at the nearest horses, on command!”

  Bixby had understood. Standing on the first wagon with his rifle in his hand, he shouted in a resounding voice: “The Patagonian warriors are behaving badly, but the white men still wish to spare them. The Patagonians shall see what power the white men have!”

  “Fire!” said Farandoul.

  Twenty rifle shots rang out; 20 horses collapsed.

  The crowd of Patagonians were momentarily struck motionless by terror; then they all turned round and departed at top speed into the desert. The 20 unhorsed riders had jumped on to the rumps of their comrades’ mounts. A few arrows had whistled harmlessly over the wagons.

  Bixby, who had listened to the shouts of the fleeing men, came back to Farandoul anxiously. “It’s not over,” he said. “Within a few days we’ll have all of Patagonia on our backs.”

  “Isn’t there any means of putting them off the track?” murmured Farandoul, pensively.

  “That scarcely seems easy, with 15 covered wagons.”

  “Let’s go—we’ll think about it on the way.”

  Towards the end of the day they reached a lake formed by the encasement within the plain of a broad and capriciously-winding river. The river was fordable above and below the lake, but Farandoul and Bixby, urged by a presentiment, galloped for some hours in the moonlight along the wooded shores of the lake. There was no trace of Patagonians. Even so, the two horsemen were put on their guard by seeing 100 huts in the distance.

  As they approached the village, they perceived that what they had taken for a Patagonian encampment was actually a republic of beavers—an important republic that must have numbered at least 700 or 800 citizens.

  The whole village was asleep. Farandoul urged his horse into the water and came out on top of one of the lodges. Bixby followed him and they both examined the world of the little amphibians with considerable surprise.

  There was, in fact, reason for astonishment. Our two friends found themselves in one of those beaver villages that existed in Europe in prehistoric times, when our fine ancestors went naked, full of scorn for top hats: villages that could still be found in Canada before the trappers forced the race to emigrate to the wilderness.

  The round huts, two or three meters tall, were aligned in several intersecting lanes, built on piles; no openings were visible on the landward side, but large window-like apertures more that a meter wide opened facing the lake. These houses seemed to be solid enough to resist anything. Farandoul, on leaning down, observed that the walls were 50 or 60 centimeters thick.

  “I regret having to disturb these brave beavers,” Farandoul said, eventually, “but I have to see the interior of one of their habitations. I have an idea!” Making as little noise as possible, he slipped through the window of one of the lodges, crouched down and, before descending into the interior, lit a match.

  This produced an immediate panic within the hut. Some 20 or 25 beavers, frightened by the light, threw themselves into the water through an opening fabricated below the water-level. Farandoul went into the lodge and called Bixby.

  “Splendid!” cried the latter. “Beavers are well-accommodated!”

  The lodge was about four meters in diameter. Half of it rose up to the ceiling, at a height of more than 2.50 meters, without an intermediate floor; the other half was divided by two floors of planks and solid beams. The boards, strewn with dry foliage, were very neat.

  “Perfectly habitable for five or six people,” Farandoul said, finally. “We’ll be all right here!”

  “What!” said Bixby. “You mean…”

  “Of course! We’ll install ourselves here for a while and let the Patagonians search for us in the pampas. I feel sorry for the beavers, but it’s necessary for us to expropriate them, according to the requirements of public utility. Quickly, let’s go back to the camp; we have to be installed by dawn.”

  The two friends remounted their horses without paying any heed to the tumult in the huts. The poor beavers, abruptly woken up, held a council and sought a means of repelling the invaders. It was much worse when the whole caravan arrived two hours later. What a commotion in the waters of the lake! The beaver sentries had signaled the approach of the troop as soon as it appeared a kilometer from the lake. In response to their alarm calls, the entire population of the village climbed on to the roofs. There was a concert of curses and lamentations, which suddenly ceased when the sailors established a makeshift bridge between the huts and the bank, within two minutes. On seeing that, all the beavers dived as one, abandoning their fatherland: the village where hundreds of generations had lived in peace.

  Farandoul went from hut to hut; there were 88 of them, among which some were food-stores and one in which a few infirm beavers were lying, having fallen into senility, being ill or crippled, guarded by a young one that had remained faithfully at its post. The sailors respected this hut, and deposited a few little ones left behind in the confusion there, along with a few provisions for the aged.

  Phileas, seeing these preparations, raised a few objections, but Farandoul finished up convincing him that it was their sole hope of salvation.

  In a few hours, the ladies were installed, five at a time, in each of the lodges; the sailors reserved those in the first row for themselves and deposited all their provisions in a central lodge.

  VII.

  They still had two hours of the night before them. Farandoul resolved to take advantage of them to do what remained to be done. There was the matter of getting rid of all the covered wagons and horses. That was hard, but absolutely necessary. The mariners drove the wagons into the river to hide their tracks from the Patagonians and went upstream for several kilometers, as far as another small and rather deep lake. The cattle and the unhitched horses were chased into the pampas and soon vanished, frightened off by a few rifle-shots.

  The shore of the lake sloped steeply; a few fathoms from the bank the depth was already considerable. The sailors profited from this circumstance, pushing the wagons down the slope by the strength of their arms. It was a laborious task, but our friends had strong arms. An hour later, the 15 wagons had rolled into the lake. The waters had closed over them and there wa
s no clue to betray them to the Patagonians.

  A profound silence soon descended over the lake; everyone, after having seen to their installation, wanted to take advantage of the tranquility to obtain some restorative sleep.

  When the village woke up, with the Sun already high above the horizon, a few unkempt heads emerged from the lodges to interrogate the countryside. All was calm and deserted—not a Patagonian in sight. This good news was welcomed joyfully. Farandoul used some large tree-trunks, already prepared by the beavers, to establish a solid decking between a few huts at the center of the village, in a totally secluded spot, where the population was invited to take turns coming to get a breath of air.

  Sentinels having been posted, the inhabitants of the beaver village, shielded from any surprise, held a discussion as to what to do next.

  “In my opinion,” Farandoul said, “we’ll be safe if we can stay here for a month or two; scarcely 40 leagues separate us from the mountains. The Patagonians, usually living on the Ocean side of the plain, won’t stay here very log once they’re sure of our complete disappearance. In two months, we can return the village to the poor beavers and get back on the road. It’s a further delay, my dear Bixby, but it’s necessary.”

  “What about food-supplies?” asked Phileas, anxiously.

  “Don’t worry, you’ll have your roast beef—there’s no lack of bison, which our men can capture with lassos, and the lake’s full of fish, so we’ll be able to hunt and fish!”

  “It’s very nice here!” cried Passepartout. “I’d like to found an authentic colony—I’ve had enough of our peregrinations!”

  “And your gas-jets,” Phileas jeered, “will burn forever awaiting your return!”