The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul

by Albert Robida

  “Damnation!” cried Mandibul. “We had a dozen pigeons, and we’ve let them go! The last remaining one is our only resource!”

  One pigeon for ten people! That was slender rations. Beaugency thought about it, frowning. “Let’s try to land!” he cried. “Six hundred meters away, beefsteaks are extending their arms to us!”

  “Land!” said Mandibul. “That’s easily said, but the means, with this damned bitch of an aerial launch and 5000 devils of bad luck…ventre de phoque!”

  While everyone leaned over the side, trying to figure out some means of descent, Beaugency feverishly finished scribbling a few lines.

  Aboard our balloon-launch, 8 a.m.

  The tempest is over but a new and terrible danger is threatening us! Famine is aboard. No one knows how to land our balloon. There are ten of us, all hungry; I am sacrificing our last pigeon to send you this last letter.

  Farewell, everyone!

  Guy de Beaugency.

  This terrible missive departed, carried by the last pigeon.

  The fugitives, leaning over the balustrade of the balloon, saw the white bird spiral through the air and zoom off like an arrow in a northward direction. They straightened up with angry exclamations. The last hope of a final meal had just flown away. The heroic journalist was right; famine was aboard.

  Barbara wept. They quarreled for a quarter of an hour; then, as recriminations were futile, they resumed seeking, hopelessly, for a chance of salvation.

  Dusk fell without any having been found. They were still traveling at a height varying between 400 and 2000 meters. When they drew nearer to the ground they made signals to all manner of indigenes, they fired cannon-shots and threw little pieces of paper—but the natives contented themselves with lifting their arms in the air, without being able to pass any foodstuffs to the balloon of the Medusa.62

  A bottle of oil for lubricating the wheels of the machinery, miraculously discovered by Barbara, was the only nourishment—if it could be called nourishment—that the unfortunate fugitives had. They passed it around until they had drunk the last drop.

  The night passed without incident and the second day of famine began. This time, they were cutting through the air 500 meters above the sea. It was then that they regretted the pairs of boots sacrificed in the flight; their leather would at least have given them something to eat, while nothing that remained in the balloon could serve as any sort of nourishment for the neediest stomach.

  Something edible did still remain, though, and that something—a terrible resource—was nothing less than one of the hungry passengers in the balloon! They all thought about it, and they all darted hungry glances at their neighbors. The buxom figure of the tender Barbara was resplendent as a gastronomic temptation; the eyes of the fugitives were transported in her direction with a quivering of the eyelids, clearly indicating the grandiose idea that everyone had formed of her succulence.

  At midday, the habitual dining hour, Mandibul made a long speech recounting all the stories of starvelings adrift that he could remember. He recalled that there was a certain custom, on such occasions, of drawing lots to determine who…and how—here Mandibul’s voice grew soft—one often saw some passenger full of generosity, and reasonably plump, sacrifice themselves for the common salvation…!

  No one broke the silence to make an offer of this sort. It was Beaugency who took up the thread. “Since no one has anything to say,” he said, “I feel obliged to speak. Listen! I’ll give you a striking proof of the generosity of my heart. It’s me who’ll save you, although I’m very thin. I’ll make the sacrifice of the one who is most dear to me in all the world—my dear Barbara. It’s her who began the work of our salvation! I’m sure enough of her heart to know that she’ll be happy to devote herself to its conclusion!”

  Barbara, weak and speechless, almost fainted.

  “I was sure of it!” Beaugency continued. “See—the noble woman acquiesces with our proposition by her silence.”

  “What courage!” murmured Mandibul, softly, with a tear in his eye. “Permit a companion in misfortune to embrace you respectfully, Madame!”

  “And us too!” cried all the fugitives, weeping. “Us too!”

  “Let’s have a chorus of Capédédious!”63 howled Tournesol, bursting into sobs. “What a woman! How plump she is!”

  Everyone got up to embrace poor Barbara, choked with emotion.

  “Ship ahoy!” cried Mandibul, who was the first to wipe his eyes. “Ship ahoy!”

  A universal commotion welcomed this announcement.

  Four hundred meters from the gondola, a large steamship was making its way across the surface of the sea. Signals were rapidly exchanged; the vessel stopped.

  They remained above the steamer for three quarters of an hour without being able to find any means of descent.

  “What can we do? What can we do?” muttered Mandibul.

  “The cannon,” suggested Barbara, more interested than anyone in finding a solution.

  “Imbecile!” cried Mandibul. “I never thought of that. Pay attention! Tie all the ropes and cable we have aboard together, end to end; throw the cord over the side with a weight attached, and let’s try to catch one of the masts of the ship with our harpoon-gun. But before that, as it’ll run away at the first cannon-shot, let’s immobilize it with a chloroform shell.”

  “Bravo!” cried Beaugency.

  “Attention! Get set! Load! Pack! Fire!”

  A shell whistled through the air and missed the vessel—which, in accordance Mandibul’s prediction, immediately got up steam in order to flee as rapidly as possible from the dangerous aeronauts.

  “Again!” said Barbara, breathlessly.

  “Fire! Missed again! Reload! Fire!”

  “Hurrah! Touché! The third shell’s scored a direct hit. Fire another one for safety’s sake!”

  It was true. The third chloroform shell had hit the ship; the latter, after a few somersaults, rotated on its axis instead of making headway. All movement was suspended on board; the passengers could be made out lying motionless on the deck.

  “Now the harpoon-gun and aim well!” cried Mandibul. “It’s our last card!”

  The harpoon whistled through the air.

  Victory! The harpoon had penetrated the hull of the vessel and remained there, solidly attaching the balloon to the ship. But how were they to get down? Hauling on the rope was not prudent. Tournesol volunteered to climb down the rope and to draw the balloon down with the ship’s capstan.

  Barbara went to embrace him before he commenced his perilous journey.

  The agile mariner spent a quarter of an hour on the descent, resting from time to time at some knot in the rope. Finally, he set foot on the ship and put his plan into operation.

  It took a long time. Two hours—which seemed like two centuries to Barbara—went by in maneuvers; the balloon descended, lower and lower….

  Finally, when it was level with the mainmast, the fugitives threw themselves into the rigging and slid down to the ship’s deck, Barbara in the lead.

  Saved! Saved!!!

  The Gironde was a transatlantic liner en route to Panama. Her 300 passengers and 60 crewmen were lying on the deck. The two chloroform shells had put them to sleep with lightning rapidity.

  “Two shells! They’ll be out for eight hours!” cried Mandibul. “We’ll put them away and take them to Cayman City while they’re asleep. To the engines, lads, and en route for the northist camp!”

  Thanks to the skill of Mandibul and his men, the Gironde, having changed direction, soon reached the port of Cayman City. The crew and passengers were still asleep. Mandibul left a very polite letter of apology for the captain, and headed for general headquarters. Farandoul was there, putting all his efforts into the fabrication of a great fleet of armored balloons designed to give chase to the southist balloons.

  X.

  Things had changed considerably. The southist balloons were no longer ploughing through the air with the same security, bringing fire
and destruction to all parts of the territory without running any risk. Now the northists also possessed an aerial fleet impatient to take on the enemy. Several limited skirmishes had taken place, and the results had not always been indecisive.

  The southist aerostats had encountered other difficulties. Bixby had invented a new machine: the flying mine. Hundreds of these mines floated above all the towns of the North, resembling mere kites; a little balloon at the end of an 800 or 900 meter thread carried the mine into the air and maintained it at the required height. All the bell-towers and tall buildings were furnished with these devices. The southists could now only advance with prudence, for several balloons arriving in darkness in the midst of such mines had already perished totally or, the explosions having capsized them, fallen into the hands of the northists.

  Generalissimo Farandoul, at the head of the northist fleet, sought by means of skilful maneuvers to reach the enemy, in order to finish the war with a decisive battle. Farandoul’s balloon was a large armored vessel of 500 horsepower; it only carried one cannon, but the shells from this monstrous cannon could pierce the thickest armor plate at a distance of eight kilometers. Forty determined men formed the crew, which, with six mechanics or stokers and the general staff, formed a complement of 55 men.

  Farandoul had baptized this balloon with a name still dear to his heart—for he was still unaware of her infamous treason—calling it by the airy and poetic name of Rising Moon. The general staff was made up of Mandibul and several other former seamen of La Belle Léocadie. The others were distributed through the fleet. Tournesol was in command of the balloons of the advance guard with skillful aeronautical captains under his orders. Escoubico was at the head of a division of bombardiers and light flying chloroform-pumps.

  Guy de Beaugency, the correspondent of Le Figaro, special attaché to Farandoul’s general staff, had not forgotten to equip himself with a well-stocked dovecot. After every event, pursuit or combat, a pigeon flew off with a letter. Needless to say, Barbara Twinklish had not followed him aboard. The poor woman, furious about the role that they had expected her to play aboard the hungry balloon, had created a terrible scene with her companions and had declared to them that she would return to the southist fleet to plead with Philoctetes Mortimer and Phileas Fogg for clemency.

  Standing on the poop-deck, in the midst of his general staff, with his telescope in his hand, Farandoul inspects the horizon without seeing any sign of the enemy. It is two days since the southist fleet disappeared under cover of darkness; have they succeeded in cutting through one of the flanking flotillas, or are they still moving straight ahead? If they are moving straight ahead, they will be trapped, for the Northern fleet is faster.

  For two hours the general staff’s telescopes never cease scanning the horizon; the dinner bell has rung and they are about to leave the poop for the dining-room when Farandoul’s final glance shows him and almost imperceptible black dot amid the cirrus—light clouds floating at a very high altitude. Telescopes search the clouds for the black dot and exclamations soon emerge from very throat. A second dot appears; there is no more doubt—it is the southist fleet, which has risen up to almost 8000 meters in the hope of allowing the northist fleet to pass underneath them.

  There is no further question of dinner. Farandoul gives orders to the mechanics; signals are sent up. The fleet climbs rapidly, whistling and releasing whirlwinds of stream.

  The black points perceived in the heights of the atmosphere have increased in size considerably; it is definitely the entire southist fleet, reduced to 69 aerostats in all. The northist force rising to meet them has only 40 balloons, but Farandoul hopes to see his other two corps arrive within 12 hours and wants to begin the battle while waiting for them.

  The southists have spotted their enemies. They have taken flight and are moving away rapidly, but the northist aerostats are visibly gaining on them. Soon, the first balloons of the advance guard arrive within range of the southist rearguard. Fire commences without any great effect, the speed of the flight making things difficult for the gunners.

  Phileas Fogg disdains to reply. He seems to have another idea. Two or three leagues ahead, heavy clouds fill the sky with their wooly masses, heaped up like a chain of mountains. The southists’ plan seems obvious; they intend to reach that thick layer and lose themselves in the bosom of an ocean of fog.

  Farandoul hastens the speed of his aerostats, but the southist balloons are already disappearing into the depths of the thick cloud; scarcely have they entered the mass when they become vague and then disappear, becoming absolutely invisible. Even so, the northist balloons approach the large cloud-mass resolutely and are about plunge into it in their turn when a frightful cannonade bursts forth upon them at short range. Phileas’ flight was a feint. Lying in ambush behind the initial masses, the invisible southists have been waiting for them!

  This sudden attack throws the flotilla’s advance guard into disorder. Two northist balloons disabled by the first volley are spiraling in the clouds. Fortunately, a large aerostat flies to their aid and succeeds in taking them securely in tow.

  The bulk of the northist forces have opened violent fire on the almost invisible southist balloons. It is a battle in the fog; the initial advantage is to the southists, placed in good positions, retreating at each volley to hide behind a mass of cloud.

  Both sides make use of chloroform shells, but the effect is hardly tangible for several reasons. The wind is violent and disperses the miasmas rapidly, and every shell striking the external armor of a balloon is a wasted shot; in order for the narcotic to have an appreciable effect it is necessary to deliver the projectile accurately on to the bridge of the gondola. However, the skillful Farandoul, firing his large mortar personally, has succeeded twice. Two of the largest southist aerostats, reached by his shells, are out of the battle; their crews have fallen into a lethargic sleep, the gunfire has ceased and the balloons, left to their own devices, have been captured.

  Chance seems to be favoring Farandoul’s gunners for, within four hours, their chloroform bombs have reached the enemy 17 times. The aerostats have been captured, their sleeping crews laid out in the holds and replaced by northist artillerists.

  Suddenly, the lookouts signal the appearance of new flotilla to port. It is Farandoul’s left wing, which has just joined the battle.

  Night is falling. Chloroform shells whistle through the air. The northists have 14 balloons out of action, having sustained serious damage or because of the lethargy of their crews, but the southist losses are immense. Of their entire fleet, only eight balloons are still fighting, with the courage of desperation; the rest have been captured or lost. Thirty to 35 balloons reached by the chloroform are adrift far from the battlefield, with their crews deeply asleep.

  The flagship balloon commanded by Phileas Fogg is riddled with bullet-holes, but it is still intact; its artillerists are working wonders. Called upon to surrender several times by Farandoul, Phileas has refused to lower the flag.

  The northist aeronauts are clamoring loudly to board it, but Farandoul stops them and takes personal command of the large mortar in order to try once again to chloroform these obstinate combatants. Orders are given; the best gunners concentrate all their fire on Phileas’ balloon.

  The armor plating is riddled with holes, but the effect of the shells is still restricted; only a few men are reached by the miasmas. The others are still fighting, urged on by Phileas, standing on the poop-deck. Finally, the enormous cannon carefully aimed by Farandoul lets fly; the shell whistles through the air and, this time, reached Phileas’ poop.

  A universal cheer greets this fine shot. Finally, the flagship will fall into the northists’ hands…

  But Phileas, with rage in his heart, sensing the initial emanations of the chloroform beginning to make him dizzy, succeeds by a supreme effort in standing up. The balloon’s armory is open; it is full of bombs and chloroform shells. Phileas sees the northist balloons approaching; he sees the detested Farandoul ur
ging on his men. Hatred torments his heart; he wants to take them with him to death and, with a firm hand, he blows up the armory!

  A frightful conflagration burst forth; Phileas’ balloon is in shreds, but the immense quantity of chloroform released into the atmosphere has suddenly knocked out the crews of the nearest northist balloons. Farandoul has fallen from his quarter-deck on top of the sleeping Mandibul; Beaugency and his pigeons are lethargic…

  It is all over.

  The last southist balloons have lowered the flag. The northists are strong enough to gather up all the prizes and to chase after their chloroformed balloons.

  These operations take three days. On the morning of the third day, the chloroformed crews begin to open their eyes. The reawakened Farandoul takes command again and gives the order to descend to the ground as quickly as possible.

  While they tack back and forth in search of a convenient landing-ground, a few disabled balloons are still being collected in mid-air, sad wrecks of the frightful aerial battle. Finally, a landing-ground is found, two kilometers from a railway station. Farandoul has a cannon-shot fired as a signal.

  The cannon chancing to be loaded with a cannonball, the shell whistles through the air, hits the grounds…and a huge column of flame springs up from the ground! The shell has just ignited an oil well!

  We shall not describe Farandoul’s arrival in Cayman City at the head of the victorious army. The reception was delirious.

  Pacified Nicaragua wanted to prove its gratitude to Farandoul, but our hero refused everything: decorations, the ministry of war, the presidential chair and so on. He only accepted one thing: the concession of the oil well that he had discovered. A month later, he sold it to a consortium of rich capitalists and divided the price—15 millions—with his friends, the mariners of La Belle Léocadie.

  The first steamboat leaving for Europe bore them all away. Duty called Farandoul to Paris; he had to inform Monsieur Jules Verne of all the details of the glorious but deplorable end of Sir Phileas Fogg and to embrace his brave foster-father, the monkey of Pomotou, who was still a day-resident at the Jardin des Plantes.