The exhausted expedition was forced to beat a retreat to the cabin in order not to risk disappearing into the ocean depths with the crumbling fragments of the shoal.
The day’s losses are estimated at 150 meters.
CACHALOT AND COD
A Drinking-Song
The refrains of alternating currents will suffice to give an idea of this new production of the muse of César Picolot, who still sings with much success in the elegant cabarets of Norway:
FIRST COUPLET
Let us now with Eskimo liqueur
Snap our fingers at Death, that boor
……………………………………
…………………………………
With pleasure and souls consigned to God
Let us drink the liver oil of cod!
SECOND COUPLET
To have a pale complexion not,
Let us drink the oil of the cachalot!
July 5
OFFICIAL SURVEY: WIDTH 121 METERS; LENGTH 380
Combat continues at the rear of our shoal and on a part of the starboard flank.
We have only had a week of calm following the extermination of the cachalots on June 26, in the glorious battle in which our editor-in-chief, Monsieur César Picolot, literally covered himself with laurels. For a week our shoal had only sustained the less dangerous assaults of porpoises and hammerheads, but yesterday morning the lookouts signaled a tribe of cachalots to the south, which seemed to be waiting for the shoal to pass.
As soon as the herrings were within range, the cachalots joined in the assault and commenced a carnage so frightful that the pen refuses to describe it—but the defense, briefly disconcerted by the number and boldness of the assailants, was soon reorganized under the skillful direction of Commodore Farandoul, supported by the heroism of our editor-in-chief.
Nightfall did not bring an end to the combat. Commodore Farandoul ordered that a row of tubs full of lighted oil should be disposed in front of the attack, and the valiant defenders of the shoal were able, by the light of those flames, to halt the destruction initiated by the cachalots.
July 6
THE BATTLE
Two terrible days of combat have not extinguished the ardor of the assailants, nor the courage of the mariners. The battle is still going on. The cachalots have suffered enormous losses, but their tribe receives reinforcements incessantly. Forty meters of herrings have succumbed.
July 7
Commodore Farandoul has found a more effective means than hand-to-hand combat to repel the attacks of the cachalots. As in the ancient sieges of the Middle Ages, we are now employing boiling oil. Our editor-in-chief proposed Greek fire, but, in view of the impossibility of assembling the necessary ingredients, was forced to withdraw the suggestion.
In a furnace established on the battlefield, four mariners boil oil extracted from the bodies of cachalots killed in the preceding days. In Commodore Farandoul’s breach, Lieutenant Mandibul and Seamen Tournesol and Escoubico receive the pans of boiling oil passed on by a chain formed by the rest of the mariners; they fix them to the ends of long poles fabricated for that purpose. When the cachalots launch themselves forward with mouths agape, with a movement as rapid as lightning, they tip the contents of each pan into the threatening maws. The scalded cachalots release horrible screams and hurl themselves abruptly backwards, unfortunately ceding their places to other attackers no less avid.
September 11
After an interruption of five days, the Red Herring is back. We beg the indulgence of our readers for the irregularity with which their favorite newspaper has appeared for some little while. Grave events taking place five days ago are our excuse. The inhabitants of the herring shoal had other preoccupations than literature; it was necessary to fight, and fight incessantly!
Five days ago the official survey gave a length of 125 meters and a width of 58 meters. Today, when a momentary respite in the attack permitted Lieutenant Mandibul to measure the extent of our losses, he fond that we no longer have any but a much reduced territory to carry us: 62 meters of herrings by 35!
Sine our departure from the Pole, our domain has lost 19/20th of its initial extent; whales, cachalots and porpoises have devoured what the icebergs have spared. The terrain no longer has the solidity it once had. The herrings are no longer as densely crowded as they once were. The cabin, too heavy for them now, would sink were it not for the barrels that sustain it somewhat.
Fortunately, we have now arrived in more temperate regions; it only freezes at night now; during the day it is five or six degrees above zero.
AN ALARM
Yesterday evening, when everyone, exhausted by five days and five nights of battle, was preparing to repair depleted strength with a hearty meal, a sudden alarm upset all the gastronomic hopes founded on the well-known skill of the master cook. A magnificent repast of fried herrings was ready on the stove-buoy, set up in the middle of the cabin, when it was suddenly observed through the opening contrived in the floor that the herring shoal seemed to be prey to disorderly movements. The master-cook, frying-pan in hand, leaned over the opening to examine the phenomenon more closely; at the same time, the shoal opened up and an enormous wide-open maw appeared, swallowing the stove, still lit, along with its flue.
The whale—for it was a whale—fixed its round eye momentarily on the inhabitants of the cabin, who could not have been more surprised; then, doubtless discomfited by the heat of the oven, released a formidable bellow and vanished as it had come.
The mariners, recovering from their astonishment, ran forward, harpoons in hand, to recover their stove, but it was too late! It was past midnight by the time a second stove had been installed and everyone could finally proceed with a restorative meal.
That September 11 issue is the last. The Red Herring did not appear the next day, nor in the days following, nor ever again. It had come to the end of its life! The unfortunate shoal of herrings had also terminated its career. The fishermen who had been impatiently waiting for it on the coasts of Holland would never see it arrive; it had perished en route, in its entirety.
The supreme catastrophe arrived during the night of September 11 and 12, 24 hours after the whale’s invasion of our friends’ home. We shall take up the pen that slipped from the hand of César Picolot and relate the events of that terrible night succinctly.
Having no instruments at all, Farandoul had been obliged to allow himself to be steered at hazard by the shoal of herrings. It went southwards; that was the main thing. The herrings had progressed without deviating overmuch from their habitual route to the latitude of Novaya Zemlya, but there, doubtless disturbed by their unaccustomed load, they had gone into the Kara Sea instead of proceeding along the north-west coast of Novaya Zemlya to reach North Cape and the coast of Swedish Lapland.
Thick fogs had prevented the mariners from distinguishing the coasts of Novaya Zemlya at the moment when the herrings had gone into the strait of Kara between Novaya Zemlya and Vaigach Island. The herring shoal, returned to the glacial ocean, could have regained its proper route by steering westwards, but, doubtless increasingly distressed by the attacks of cachalots and the actions of its passengers, it had continued to head southwards in the direction of the White Sea, a blind gulf into which no shoal of herrings had ever ventured before.
On the night of September 11 and 12, the mariners were sleeping profoundly in the cabin. The day had been hard; they had been fighting without a minute’s respite all day long, but at nightfall it had been necessary to let the cachalots continue their work of destruction. The worried Farandoul held a whispered discussion with Lieutenant Mandibul regarding the impending eventualities.
Suddenly, as he was explaining a new method of consolidating the shoal to Mandibul, a formidable shock was produced fore and aft, and the cabin, violently struck by a hard impact, collapsed on the sleepers.
Everything was overturned—the floor, the roof and the walls—and the mass of debris, lifted up by an enormous wave, wa
s thrown once again upon the obstacle. Five seconds had sufficed; the catastrophe was complete. The cabin, so warm and comfortable a little while before, had literally melted into the sea.
How had it happened? Quite simply because the shoal of herrings, tormented, harassed and finally driven mad, heading directly south without the slightest precaution, had run into a lighthouse erected in the open sea on a mass of rock 20 kilometers from Cape Kanin. Thus, a lighthouse, a savior torch for so many ships, had been the ruin of the unfortunate herring shoal—and that was because the torch was unlit; the lighthouse had gone out.
Our friends had not perished—at least, not yet. Clinging to the debris of the cabin, they were searching in vain for the backs of the faithful herrings beneath their feet. The ladies, awakened with a start, were screaming lamentably.
In the profound obscurity, Farandoul strove to recognize the obstacle that the shoal had struck; gripped by a second wave, he was carried once again to a great height and, in spite of cruel injuries, searched for some uneven surface to which he might cling. To his profound astonishment, his hand encountered an iron ring. Farandoul seized it powerfully and remained suspended there when the wave fell back. He was able to hang on with one hand and unwind a long piece of rope that he had around his waist, in order to throw it to the castaways.
Tournesol had an inspiration. Farandoul’s foster-father was swimming nearby, moving from wave to wave to assist castaways in peril, gathering up items of wreckage here and there and bringing them back to the main group. Tournesol made a sign to him, threw a bundle of ropes over his shoulder and pointed in the direction from which Farandoul’s voice was calling.
In two bounds the brave monkey was at Farandoul’s side, ropes were attached and thrown to the shipwreck-victims, and then the monkey climbed on to our hero’s shoulders. Suddenly, he disappeared upwards—but the monkey’s joyful cry told Farandoul that he had made a fortunate discovery. At the same moment, a rope brushed his face; he grabbed it and swiftly lifted himself up. About three meters above the ring he felt himself grasped by a solid fist, and disappeared into an opening.
“A window!” he shouted. And while the monkey threw his rope into the abyss to draw up another victim, Farandoul departed on a groping voyage of discovery. The window gave access to a narrow and winding stairway. Our hero understood.
“A lighthouse! We’re in a lighthouse!”
Climbing briskly, at the risk of bumping his head on the turnings, he soon arrived on the upper floor of the lighthouse, in a room in which a smoky lamp was burning. Sonorous snores emerging from two camp-beds informed him that the room was inhabited. Without bothering with the sleepers, he took the lamp, picked up a bundle of ropes and lifebelts that were lying in a corner and threw himself toward he ladder leading to the balcony.
A general cry coming from below told him that the lamp had been seen.
“Ahoy, lads! Catch the ropes!”
Farandoul’s foster-father had already brought up a number of mariners through the lower window; their boots cold already be heard on the staircase. Tournesol, swimming around the lighthouse, organized the rescue down below; he had attached the ladies to two or three barrels and a few spars of debris that had survived the wreck and was working to hoist the up to the window. Three men on the balcony and three at the inferior window sufficed to maneuver the ropes. Tournesol kept the others at sea to assist the departures. Madame Léa d’Arcis, supported by a lifebelt, was the first to be lifted up, and was hoisted up to the balcony without suffering any damage.
The brave mariners redoubled their efforts. Three ladies found refuge on a cask containing dregs of rum; the German scientists were sitting astride another, bobbing on the waves. The mariners swam out to them and brought them to the lighthouse. The solicitor Codgett, scared half to death on the staves of a third cask, was also solidly attached to a mooring-rope thrown from the balcony.
Tournesol darted one final glance around him. Cachalots in search of the shoal were arriving, propelled by their powerful fins.
“Hoist away!” he shouted.
César Picolot and several ladies were already swaying in the air. The last victims of the wreck were rapidly lifted up. Just in time! The cachalots had perceived these marvelous items of prey and were launching their attack—but they were too late. Tournesol and the mariners were climbing up by the strength of their wrists; the other castaways were already too high. Just one of the scientists was seized by a cachalot nimbler than the rest, but he was able to free himself by wriggling violently and escaped, leaving a boot between the monster’s teeth.
After a few minutes as long as centuries, the shipwreck-victims reached the balcony. Everyone was safe. The cachalots having gone all the way round the lighthouse, the castaways were able to defy their voracity.
“Fire, quickly!” cried Farandoul, when all the victims had arrived safe and sound. “Let’s signal for help!”
They could only warm themselves in shifts; the room, being very narrow, could not accommodate more than seven or eight people at a time. The rest of the castaways had to stand on the staircase awaiting their turn.
IX.
While the stove was being lit, Farandoul threw himself on to the stairway in order to take a roll-call of the shipwreck-victims. Having arrived at the final turning he suddenly went pale. “Mandibul!” he shouted.
The final landing was empty.
The astounded mariners looked at one another. Mandibul was not in the lighthouse. No one had seen him since the impact. He had disappeared, along with Mrs. Hatteras!
Farandoul had already thrown the lifebelts and casks back into the sea. He shouted, but no cry replied. The Moon, which emerged at that moment from its veil of mist, allowed a considerable range of vision, but the mariners, leaning over the drop, could not see anything in the water but the shadows of cachalots chasing the debris of the shipwreck.
“Nothing!” murmured Farandoul, tearing his hair. “Nothing!”
Tournesol had saved his carbine. Fortunately, it was loaded. Farandoul took it and fired it, in the hope that the detonation would reach Mandibul’s ears, if he were still alive.
Two minutes went by after the gunshot. No voice replied—but a flash of light suddenly appeared on the horizon and a distant detonation replied to Farandoul’s rifle-shot.
“He’s alive!” Farandoul cried. “He’s alive!”
A second detonation rang out, then a third and a fourth, at regular intervals. Two or three more rifle-shots resounded, but the sounds were growing more distant and eventually nothing more was heard.
“A shipwreck-victim clinging to a piece of wreckage couldn’t contrive that fusillade,” Farandoul said. “Mandibul must be on a fragment of our herring shoal. There’s still hope!”
Tournesol searched every corner of the lighthouse, guided by the less bewildered of the two Russian keepers. One of the German scientists, who spoke Russian, served as an interpreter. The Russian gave stammering explanations. As it seemed to Farandoul that the explanation was turning into an altercation, he judged it necessary to intervene.
Tournesol lashed out at the keeper with his fists and accused him of being the cause of the poor herring shoal’s wreck; indeed, the lighthouse had gone out for lack of oil, the keeper and his comrade having drunk the remainder of the supply! Farandoul knew that this happened quite frequently in lighthouses on the coasts of Russia, so, without wasting time in recriminations, he posed several important questions to the keeper. The answers were far from satisfactory. They were in the open sea, five leagues off Cape Kanin, in the administrative district of Archangel. The keepers were only re-provisioned once a month, and a fortnight wood pass before the arrival of the supply boat. That was serious. The food would run out; although there was enough for two, there was not enough for 30!
The crew, and Tournesol in particular, were crushed. The herring-shoal was open to a good deal of criticism as a vessel, but it had had the immense advantage of furnishing its passengers with healthy and—
more importantly—abundant nourishment.
The lack of food was not the only disadvantage of the Russian lighthouse; as a dwelling it presented an inconvenience to which they paid little attention at first, when they emerged from the icy water, but which was no less grave. It lacked space. It was very cramped in the upper room; no less than three quarters of the castaways had to establish themselves on the dark and damp spiral staircase, lodged very uncomfortably.
The solicitor Codgett was in despair, by virtue of the loss of Mrs. Hatteras, who had disappeared with Mandibul in the catastrophe. With her went any hope of being compensated for the numerous annoyances endured by the honorable man of law since he had imprudently taken on the difficult case of Hatteras versus Hatteras. When he learned that he might have to stay in the lighthouse for another fortnight, lying on a staircase and very feebly nourished, his desperation knew no bounds.
Without waiting for orders from their leader, the mariners had already taken measures to add the produce of fishing-lines to the lighthouse’s meager resources. Standing on the balcony or leaning out of the windows they had thrown numerous lines into the sea and were awaiting the good will of the fish.
Farandoul, having discovered an old map of the White Sea in the keepers’ room, studied the position of the lighthouse. Five leagues of sea, as we have said, separated it from the coast. The nearest town was three or four leagues further to the south; it was called Krasnow and counted no more than 5000 inhabitants. But how could they get a call for help that far? How could they make contact with the land?
When he learned that a civilized town was at such a relatively close distance, the solicitor Codgett’s spirits revived and he asked to speak in order to make a proposition.
The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul Page 64
