The Adventures of Saturnin Farandoul Read online

  No response.

  “Was ist ihre name? Siete Italiano? Habla usted española? Away with you, then, Tonnerre d’Honfleur,” the Captain expostulated, having exhausted his linguistic resources. “Have you fallen from the Moon?”

  Saturnin Farandoul tried to make sense of all these novel sounds. As far as he could recall, no human voice had ever struck his ear; the language of monkeys was the only one he understood.

  “Look in that tobacco pouch around his neck,” the Lieutenant suggested.

  The Captain, who had not previously noticed it, took the pouch. “He has papers on him,” he said. “Let’s see... ah! He’s French, born in Bordeaux...” The Captain stopped short. “A thousand million Tonnerres d’Honfleur!” he cried, seizing the child by the arms. “Your name is Saturnin Farandoul, my lad, and you’re the son of poor Barnabé Farandoul, a Captain like me, who was lost at sea at least ten years ago!”

  “Impossible!” said Lieutenant Mandibul.

  “See for yourself, Lieutenant—here’s his birth certificate. He’s now 11 and a half years old.”

  “I’d have said at least 15, Captain.”

  “Me too—the porpoise hasn’t suffered for lack of a nurse, Tonnerre d’Honfleur! What a seaman he’d make! I’ll adopt you, my boy!”

  And Saturnin Farandoul, whose exact age we now know, entered into a new phase of his life. How he succeeded, by means of vivid and animated pantomime, in communicating his history to Captain Lastic, we cannot hope to explain. Even so, the Captain was soon acquainted with the most trivial details of that existence, troubled—from poor Farandoul’s viewpoint—only by a humiliating infirmity of constitution.

  There were a few books aboard La Belle Léocadie. Some engravings of monkeys in an account of ocean voyages were shown to Farandoul, who covered them with tender kisses.

  “Let’s make shift to be a man, my son—there’ll be time to later to bid them good-day, Tonnerre d’Honfleur!” So saying, the good Captain cut out the monkeys and pasted them to the wall of the little cabin he had given to Farandoul, not far from his own. Our hero was thus able to have the image of his parents on their beach constantly before his eyes, knowing that they might perhaps still be weeping, mourning their poor exile.

  Farandoul had a good deal of trouble getting used to the clothes worn by civilized men. He was by no means elegantly turned out during the early days, when he wore his jacket in place of his trousers and his trousers in place of his jacket; as he wished to make himself agreeable to Captain Lastic, though, he soon managed to make himself presentable.

  In addition, he made rapid progress in the study of languages. With sailors of every nationality around him, Farandoul learned French, English, Spanish, Malay, Chinese and Breton all at the same time.

  Captain Lastic never left off telling Lieutenant Mandibul how pleased he was. “Tonnerre d’Honfleur, Lieutenant Mandibul, what a seaman! This porpoise is a charming young man. He slides down a rope in two ticks, from the royal to the topgallant—he could give pointers to the finest seaman in the merchant marine. That boy will do me great honor, Lieutenant Mandibul!”

  Indeed, although Farandoul had been obliged to lower the flag before the agility of his foster-brothers on the isle of monkeys, his superiority to the sailors aboard La Belle Léocadie was obvious. None could compare with him in the feats of wild gymnastics that he performed on the topmasts. The masts reminded him of the coconut-palms to which he had been born—very nearly—and his greatest pleasure was to swing in the breeze from the crow’s nest on the highest mast.

  No one who caught sight of Saturnin Farandoul five years after these events would have been able to recognize the monkeys’ foundling in the young man with the thin moustache, the intelligent face and the forceful gestures walking on the poop-deck of La Belle Léocadie, in the company of Captain Lastic and Lieutenant Mandibul—both of whom had aged a little. The benefits of education and civilization had converted the unsuccessful ape of other days into a superior human being!

  From time to time, Saturnin still thought of his adoptive parents with a certain tenderness, but his mind was fully engaged at present with navigation and commerce.

  For five years, he had sailed with La Belle Léocadie, carrying clocks, leather gloves and crinolines to the Sandwich Islands, champagne and parasols to the Indies, footwear, haberdashery and perfumery to Chile, returning with cargoes of logwood for the wine-merchants of Bordeaux—teak, rosewood, ebony and so on. Having believed during his early youth that the world was bounded by the horizons of his island, with monkeys for all humanity, he now found the entire universe quite small. He had already sailed the seas of every quarter of the globe, set foot on every continent, relaxed on many an isle.

  Captain Lastic had nothing but praise for his adoptive son; Farandoul had never caused him the slightest trouble. He had been obliged on one occasion to bail him out of Liverpool jail, where he had been committed after an instant’s forgetfulness, but that peccadillo had only warmed the Captain’s heart. The incident had taken place at the Liverpool Museum of Natural History, where Saturnin Farandoul, at the sight of a stuffed monkey, had been unable to restrain his sorrow and anger. He had thrown himself upon the terrified curators with such fury that they had only been torn from his hands in a considerably damaged state.

  At present, La Belle Léocadie, out of Saigon bound for New South Wales, was passing through the Sulu Isles, about to enter the Celebes Sea. Captain Lastic was untroubled. There was nothing to fear on the part of the elements; the sea and sky were calm and everything was set fair for a pleasant voyage. These latitudes were said to be infested with pirates, but Captain Lastic—who had never encountered any—did not believe a word of any tale of sea-raiders.

  “Pirates! Tonnerre d’Honfleur, Lieutenant Mandibul!” Captain Lastic often said. “It’s 50 years since the last one was hanged. Then again, if there were any left, I wouldn’t be sorry to see a few!”

  Alas, this wish was to be granted much sooner than the poor Captain imagined! That same night, profiting from a moonless sky, Malay canoes came alongside without the slightest noise or splashing sound alerting the sailors on La Belle Léocadie. Were the men on watch asleep, or lost in seductive memories of their recent voyage to Tahiti? At any rate, they did not wake up again once the Malays’ daggers had done their work.

  Still without making the slightest noise, the pirates overran the ship. Captain Lastic woke up, but only to find himself in the hands of the Malays, trussed up so tightly that he was unable to lift a finger. Lieutenant Mandibul, Saturnin Farandoul and the remainder of the 15-man crew were also tied up like parcels.

  It was a sad moment.

  The pirates came and went on the bridge. In the Captain’s cabin, two or three chiefs with atrociously grim faces discussed what had to be done. Poor Captain Lastic, who had some slight acquaintance with the Malay language, was anxious to know whether the crew would be massacred immediately or on the following day, when the ship was brought to land. He understood enough to know that the Malays were steering the ship towards Bassilan, one of the Sulu Islands, which was only a few leagues distant.

  At dawn, Bassilan came within view. The pirates, who were passable seamen, dropped anchor on a sandy sea-bed a few cables from a hazardous rocky coast. A colossal racket then rose up on the ship as 50 or so sinister-looking villains occupied themselves with unloading La Belle Léocadie and transferring their booty to the island.

  The island’s interior, thickly wooded and teeming with life, seemed very pleasant. Even so, Saturnin had no intention whatsoever of admiring the scenery; the pirates had deposited their prisoners on a tall rock, from which they could follow the plundering of the ship.

  The Sun, rising above the horizon, reminded the corsairs that it was nearly time for breakfast. The fine wines of Captain Lastic’s store-room had already furnished the occasion with frequent libations; on their final trip, each pirate carried the greatest possible number of bottles, and the orgy began—much to Captain La
stic’s distress.

  “Let it go,” said Saturnin Farandoul. “Perhaps it will be our salvation.”

  “Tonnerre d’Honfleur! It breaks my heart, all the same! Such excellent cognac!”

  What rogues these pirates were! Beards of every color, eyebrows and noses of every possible shape! Frightful bandit faces tanned by the tropical Sun! And what walking arsenals! Pistols of every caliber and every kind in their belts—operated by flintlocks, matchlocks, firing-pins—and daggers of every dimension in their packs, some of them straight-bladed, others twisted like flames, some toothed like saws and nearly all of them poisoned. As they walked, these sea-rovers made a clanking noise that was exceedingly satisfying to their ears.

  The three chiefs, naturally, possessed the most complicated and the most tortuous arsenals of all, and therefore cut the most rascally dash. By the same token, they had the right to the finest liqueurs of all, and did not stint themselves in the least.

  It must be said that these sinister corsairs were known and famed throughout the Sunda Islands.7 The first, the celebrated Bora-Bora, had exploited the troubled seas for many long years, ravaging the archipelagoes, seizing ships, massacring their crews and—the last and most important part of the operation—finding advantageous means of selling the produce of what he called his business, in Java, Borneo and Sumatra. The other two, Sibocco and Bumbaya, were his lieutenants; they had learned their trade in his school and knew no better way to balance their mercantile accounts than by cutting off the heads of tradesmen.

  Thirst satisfied gives rise to thoughts of food; soon Bora-Bora was hungry. The individual who seemed to be the robber-band’s chief cook was given orders to prepare a meal. By way of hors-d’oeuvres, they began to make free with the provisions of La Belle Léocadie, while the cook busied himself with putting an enormous wild boar, killed that same morning by one of the Malays, on a roasting-spit.

  The cook devoted five relatively tranquil minutes to this serious occupation, but became distracted thereafter, directing envious looks towards his 50 comrades—who, forming a great circle around the fire over which the boar was cooking, were avidly emptying Captain Lastic’s beloved bottles. An idea sprang up in that cranium bronzed by the Pacific Sun; in order to have his share of the liquid nourishment, it was only necessary that he should be replaced in his kitchen by one of the prisoners. Taking up an immense cutlass, the cook made his way towards the mariners—who thought, seeing him approach, that their sacrificial hour had come.

  With mighty kicks, the cook knocked several sailors aside in order to get to Saturnin Farandoul, whose bonds he cut before telling him what was required of him.

  “By all means, with pleasure!” said our smiling hero—and the two men made their way back to the feast.

  Everything was going well. The gaiety of the honorable assembly had reached its highest pitch. Two or three pirates had already been moved by the heat of debate inadvertently to bury their well-sharpened daggers in the bellies of their neighbors. Paying no heed to such mere bagatelles, the cook threw himself upon the bottles of spirits, determined to catch up with his fellows.

  Standing before the fire, Farandoul took stock of the situation. The pirates had deposited their more cumbersome weapons—rifles, pistols and yataghans—some 20 meters away, along with numerous cartridge-pouches, powder-horns and boxes of bullets. That was all Farandoul required; he had his plan. He turned the boar on its spit, and then—pretending to need firewood—left the circle and made his way towards the pirates’ weapons.

  His companions followed his every move from a distance, believing that he had gone to seize as many sabers as he could and would make haste to cut their bonds.

  Not at all: Saturnin Farandoul gathered wood and foliage, dexterously hid some cartridge-pouches and boxes of bullets among the leaves, and returned to the boar.

  Not a single pirate had deigned to stir.

  Saturnin had plenty of time to make the boar’s guts into a magnificent infernal machine: the powder on a bed of dry leaves underneath, the bags of bullets on top, augmented by pebbles gathered from around the fire. A fuse taken from a firearm completed the equipment of the bomb.8

  When everything was ready, Saturnin let the end of the fuse fall into the fire, blew on it to enliven the flame, and moved away from the group unhurriedly.

  There was not long to wait.

  The cook, realizing that his replacement was no longer to be seen, got up and brandished his kris at the boar; he was just bending over to ascertain the progress of the roast when a jet of flame shot out of the animal.

  A frightful detonation rang out. The infernal machine had exploded.

  No more boar, no more cook! The first was in shreds, the second had had his head blown off. Twenty pirates were writhing on the ground. The bullets and pebbles with which Farandoul had charged his Saint Barbara boar 9 had struck to the right and the left, as if they were a blast of grape-shot, smashing arms and legs, drilling holes in chests and bursting eyeballs in their sockets.

  With lightning rapidity, Farandoul threw himself towards his companions, gathering up an armful of weapons as he went. With 15 thrusts of a dagger, he freed them from their bonds. In no time at all, they were armed and, under Farandoul’s direction, they fell upon the terrified pirates before the brigands were able to collect themselves.

  What a fine spectacle it was! Those who had been spared by the grape-shot, or who only had small pebbles embedded in their bodies, snatched up their famous blades and defended themselves like demons! But how could they resist brave mariners who had their revenge to take?

  Within two minutes, 25 pirates were strewn about the sand, and the rest were fleeing into the island’s interior like vultures scattered from their prey. Some 40 or 45 Malays were out of the fight, but the crew of La Belle Léocadie had, alas, to mourn the loss of their chief. The bold Captain Lastic, after having personally brought down two Malays, had been run through by the pirate Bumbaya’s poisoned kris! Captain Lastic managed one last “Tonnerre d’Honfleur!” as he gave up the ghost, while Saturnin perforated the hideous Bumbaya in his turn.

  There was no time for Saturnin to give vent to his anguish; he had heard the pirate chief Bora-Bora complain about the lateness of a company of his followers, whose return he was expecting at any moment. About 15 corsairs had fled, Bora-Bora himself among them; they would be able to return in force to crush the mariners. Saturnin therefore made haste to re-embark in order to get away from the fatal island. All the weapons were gathered up; Captain Lastic’s body was taken aboard the three-master, and the anchor was raised as soon as the pirates’ boat had been scuttled.

  Just in time! Hundreds of men were descending upon the beach, frantically hurling spears and firing rifles.

  La Belle Léocadie sent forth a blast of grape-shot from its only cannon before her final departure.

  As soon as they were at sea, the mariners rendered their final duty to poor Captain Lastic. His command should rightfully have reverted to Lieutenant Mandibul but the Lieutenant, overcome by emotion, declared that Saturnin Farandoul had displayed the very finest qualities during the affair and had saved all their lives. He thought that they could do no better than to appoint him their Captain—as for himself, he intended to continue as second-in-command, under the heroic Farandoul.

  The crew applauded.

  Farandoul was now Captain of La Belle Léocadie. Moreover, Captain Lastic, the three-master’s owner, had made him his heir. Everything, therefore, worked out for the best; in honor of poor Lastic, a number of pirates who were found dead drunk in the steward’s room were hanged.

  The sea was calm; this time, the crew exercised the most extreme vigilance.

  Still weeping for the poor Captain, Saturnin Farandoul remembered that at the end of the battle, he had seized the pirate chief Bora-Bora by the belt, and had been about to cleave his skull when the belt had broken, remaining in his hand while Bora-Bora fled. He had kept the belt without bothering to examine it, but he was now c
urious to do so, in company with Lieutenant Mandibul.

  The pockets sewn into the belt’s inner surface were stuffed with papers. Some seemed to be business documents covered with figures, statements of account and contracts; others seemed even more interesting to Captain Saturnin Farandoul. He studied them carefully and, thanks to his knowledge of the Malay language, he eventually understood that he had between his hands a genuine deed of incorporation, which established—under the trade name Bora-Bora & Co—a Company for the Skimming of the Sunda Islands. This company was financed by the Malay merchants of Borneo, charged with the disposal of goods and the investment of profits. All the documents were in order; Bora-Bora had a warrant. Saturnin Farandoul could read the details of operations recorded on a day-to-day basis, but the document which made him leap to his feet was a sort of current account containing a list of the receipts and savings of Bora-Bora & Co.

  The total shown was 54 million “coins”—without specifying whether these were gold, silver or copper—and these savings were deposited in a bank in Borneo.

  Farandoul assembled the crew of La Belle Léocadie and told them what the documents were. They all cheered enthusiastically. “Friends,” he said, “these riches are ours, by right of conquest! Everyone shall have a share in the prize. Set sail for Borneo! But we’ll have to keep a weather-eye open; Bora-Bora isn’t dead, and he’ll be looking to overtake us!”

  III.

  Sailing towards Borneo, La Belle Léocadie had no unfortunate encounters. She gave a wide berth to all the islands and guarded against the approach of Malay canoes which appeared to be standing off from her in the channel between the Bonggi islands and the north tip of Borneo.

  As soon as the ship lay at anchor, Farandoul went ashore with Lieutenant Mandibul, both of them heavily armed, and made for the pirates’ bank. Without offering any explanations, Farandoul laid before the eyes of the crooked banker—a shifty-looking individual—the deed of incorporation of Bora-Bora & Co and the pass-book for the current account.