Propeller Island

  In truth, the assailants were too many. All that Erromango, Tanna, and the neighbouring islands could furnish were in this attack on Milliard City. There was one fortunate circumstance, however, and Commodore Simcoe noticed it: Floating Island, instead of drifting on to Erromango, was being gently carried by a slight current towards the northern group, although it would have been better if it had been moving out to sea.

  Nevertheless time went on, the savages redoubled their efforts, and in spite of their courageous resistance, the defenders could not keep them back. About ten o’clock the gates were forced. Before the howling crowd that swarmed into the square Commodore Simcoe had to retreat towards the town hall, which could be defended like a fortress.

  In their retreat, the militia and sailors gave way foot by foot. Perhaps now they had entered the town, the New Hebrideans, carried away by their instincts, of pillage, might disperse through the different quarters, and thus give the Milliardites some advantage.

  Vain hope! Captain Sarol would not allow his men to leave First Avenue. By it they would reach the town hall, where they would overcome the last efforts of the besieged. When Captain Sarol was master of that, the victory would be complete. The hour of pillage and massacre would sound.

  “Decidedly there are too many of them,” said Frascolin, whose arm was grazed by a javelin.

  And the arrows rained, and the bullets too, as the retreat became quicker.

  About two o’clock the defenders had been driven back to the town hall square. Of dead there were already fifty—of wounded about twice or thrice as many. Before the town hall was reached by the savages, its doors were closed; the women and children were moved into the interior apartments, where they would be sheltered from the projectiles. Then Cyrus Bikerstaff, the King of Malecarlie, Commodore Simcoe, Colonel Stewart, Jem Tankerdon, Nat Coverley, their friends, the militiamen and the sailors, posted themselves at the windows, and the firing recommenced with fresh violence.

  “We must hold this,” said the Governor. “This is our last chance, and it will require a miracle to save us.”

  The assault was immediately ordered by Captain Sarol, who felt sure of success, although the task was a serious one. In fact, the doors were strong, and it would be difficult to break them in without artillery. The savages attacked them with tomahawks, under the fire from the windows, which made them lose heavily. But that did not matter to their chief; though if he could be killed, his death might change the face of matters.

  Two hours elapsed. The town hall still held out. If the bullets decimated the assailants, their masses were renewed unceasingly. In vain the most skilful marksmen, Jem Tankerdon, Colonel Stewart, endeavoured to hit Captain Sarol. While numbers of his people fell around him, he seemed invulnerable.

  And it was not Sarol, amid a more furious fusillade than ever, whom a Snider bullet had hit on the central balcony. It was Cyrus Bikerstaff, shot full in the chest. He fell—he could only utter a few stifled words, the blood mounted to his throat. He was carried into the room behind, where he soon yielded his last breath. Thus died the first governor of Floating Island, an able administrator, an honest and great man.

  The assault was pursued with redoubled fury. The doors were yielding to the axes of the savages. How could the last fortress of Floating Island be saved? How could they save the women, the children, all those within from a general massacre?

  The King of Malecarlie, Ethel Simcoe, and Colonel Stewart, were discussing whether it would be better to retreat by the rear of the town hall. But where would they go? To the battery at the Stern? But could they reach it? To one of the harbours? But were not the savages in possession of them? And the wounded, already numerous, how could they resolve to abandon them?

  At this moment a fortunate thing happened, which would probably change the state of affairs.

  The King of Malecarlie stepped out on to the balcony, without heeding the bullets and arrows which rained around him. He brought up his rifle and aimed at Captain Sarol, just as one of the doors was about to give passage to the assailants.

  Captain Sarol fell dead.

  The Malays drew back, carrying the body of their chief, and began to retreat towards the gates of the square.

  Almost immediately shouts were heard at the top of First Avenue, where a fusillade broke out with renewed intensity.

  What had happened? Had the defenders of the ports and batteries been successful? Had they advanced on the town? Had they attempted to take the natives in the rear, notwithstanding their small numbers?

  “The firing is increasing near the observatory,” said Colonel Stewart.

  “The scoundrels have had a reinforcement,” said Commodore Simcoe.

  “I do not think so,” observed the King of Malecarlie. “This firing cannot be explained—”

  “Yes! There it is again,” said Pinchinat, “and again to our advantage.”

  “Look! look!” said Calistus Munbar; “the beggars are beginning to run.”

  “Come, my friends,” said the King of Malecarlie, “let us chase these rascals out of the town. Forward!”

  Officers, militiamen, sailors, ran downstairs and out of the principal doorway.

  The square was abandoned by the crowd of savages, who fled, some down First Avenue, others along the neighbouring streets.

  What was the cause of this rapid and unexpected change? Was it to be attributed to the disappearance of Captain Sarol—to the absence of leadership which had followed? Was it possible that the assailants, so superior in force, had been discouraged by the death of their chief at the very moment the town hall was about to be carried?

  Led by Commodore Simcoe and Colonel Stewart, about two hundred men of the sailors and militia, with them Jem and Walter Tankerdon, Nat Coverley, Frascolin and his comrades, advanced down First Avenue, chasing the fugitives, who did not even turn to give them a bullet or an arrow, and threw away Sniders, bows, and javelins.

  “Forward! Forward!” shouted Commodore Simcoe, in a voice of thunder.

  Round the observatory the firing grew fiercer. It was evident that a terrible fight was going on.

  Help, then, had arrived on Floating Island! But what help? Where had it come from?

  Anyhow, the assailants were retreating on all sides, a prey to an incomprehensible panic. Had they been attacked by reinforcements from Larboard Harbour?

  Yes. A thousand New Hebrideans had invaded Standard Island, under the leadership of the French colonists of Sandwich Island. We need not be astonished at the quartette being greeted in their national language, when they met their brave compatriots.

  It was under these circumstances that this unexpected, or it might be said quasi-miraculous intervention had taken place.

  During the preceding night and since daybreak Floating Island had continued to drift towards Sandwich Island, where, it will be remembered, there resided a prosperous French colony. As soon as the colonists got wind of the attack devised by Captain Sarol, they resolved, with the aid of a thousand natives devoted to them, to go to the help of Floating Island. But to transport them the vessels of Sandwich Island were not sufficient.

  Judge of the joy of these gallant colonists when, during the morning, Floating Island came drifting up on the current. Immediately they threw themselves into fishing-boats, followed by the natives, most of them swimming, and landed at Larboard Harbour.

  In a moment the men in the Prow and Stern batteries, and those in the port, joined them. Across the country, across the park they ran, towards Milliard City, and owing to this diversion the town hall did not fall into the hands of the assailants, already shaken by the death of Captain Sarol.

  Two hours afterwards, the New Hebridean bands, pursued on all sides, had to seek safety by plunging into the sea, so as to reach Sandwich Island, while the greater number of them fell under the bullets of the militia.

  And now Floating Island had no more to fear; it was saved from pillage, massacre, and annihilation.

  It might seem that the issue
of this terrible affair would have evoked manifestations of public joy. No! Oh! these Americans are always astonishing! They said that there was nothing surprising in the result—that they had foreseen it. And yet how nearly had the attempt of Captain Sarol ended in a terrible catastrophe!

  However, we may be allowed to think that the chief proprietors of Floating Island congratulated themselves in private at having been able to retain their property, and that at the moment when the marriage of Walter Tankerdon and Miss Coverley would make the future secure.

  It should be said that when the lovers met again, they fell into each other’s arms. And no one thought of seeing in that any breach of the proprieties. Should they not have been married a day ago?

  There was no need to seek for any ultra-American reserve in the welcome our Parisian artistes gave to the French colonists of Sandwich Island. What an exchange of grips of the hand! What felicitations did the Quartette Party receive from their compatriots! If the bullets had spared them, they had none the less done their duty, these two violins, this alto, and this violoncello! As to the excellent Athanase Dorémus, he had been quietly waiting in his room at the casino, ready for the pupil who never came—and who could reproach him?

  An exception must be made with regard to the Superintendent. Ultra-Yankee as he was, his joy was delirious. But what would you have? In his veins flowed the blood of the illustrious Barnum, and it will be cheerfully admitted that the descendant of such an ancestor would hardly be as sane as his fellow-citizens of North America.

  After the affair was over, the King of Malecarlie, accompanied by the Queen, returned to his house in Thirty-seventh Avenue, where the council of notables conveyed to him the thanks which his courage and devotion to the common cause deserved.

  Thus Floating Island was safe and sound. Its safety had cost it dear.

  Cyrus Bikerstaff, killed at the height of the battle, sixty militiamen and sailors hit by bullets or arrows, and almost as many among the government servants and tradesmen, who had fought so bravely.

  In the public mourning the people all joined, and the Pearl of the Pacific would never forget it.

  With the rapidity of execution characteristic of them, these Milliardites promptly set to work to repair damages.

  After a stay of a few days at Sandwich Island all trace of the sanguinary strife would disappear.

  Meantime, there was complete accord with regard to the question of the military powers, which were left in the hands of Commodore Simcoe. On this head there was no difficulty, no competition. Neither Jem Tankerdon nor Nat Coverley had any ambition on this head. Later, an election would settle the important question as to the new governor of Floating Island.

  The day after, an imposing ceremony summoned the population to the quays of Starboard Harbour. The corpses of the Malays and the natives were thrown into the sea; but it was not so with those of the citizens who had died in defence of Floating Island. Their bodies were taken to the temple and the cathedral to receive the honours due to them; from Governor Cyrus Bikerstaff to the humblest amongst them, all were the object of the same prayer and the same sorrow.

  Then this funeral cargo was confided to one of the swift steamers of Floating Island, and the ship departed for Madeleine Bay, carrying these honoured corpses to a Christian land.

  CHAPTER XII.

  Floating Island left the neighbourhood of Sandwich Island on the 3rd of March. Before its departure, the French colony and their native allies were the object of cordial gratitude on the part of the Milliardites. These were friends whom they would see again; they were brothers whom Sebastien Zorn and his comrades left on this island of the New Hebrides group, who would for the future appear in the annual itinerary.

  Under Commodore Simcoe’s direction, the repairs were quickly made. The damages were not extensive. The electrical machinery was uninjured. With what remained of the stock of petroleum, the working of the dynamos was assured for many weeks. Besides, Floating Island would soon be back in that part of the Pacific where its submarine cables would allow of its communicating with Madeleine Bay. There was, consequently, the certainty of the campaign ending without disaster. Within four months Floating Island would be on the American coast.

  “Let us hope so,” said Sebastien Zorn, when the Superintendent was as usual enlarging on the future of this marvellous maritime invention.

  “But,” observed Calistus Munbar, “what a lesson we have received! These Malays, so obliging, this Captain Sarol, no one would have suspected them. This is the last time Floating Island will give shelter to strangers.”

  “Not even if a shipwreck throws them in the way?” asked Pinchinat.

  “I do not believe any more in shipwrecks or shipwrecked crews!”

  But though Commodore Simcoe had charge as before of the navigation of Floating Island, it did not follow that the civil powers were in his hands. Since the death of Cyrus Bikerstaff Milliard City had had no mayor, and, as we know, the assistants had resigned their positions. Consequently it would be necessary to nominate a new governor of Floating Island.

  As there was no official of the civil power they could not proceed to the marriage of Walter Tankerdon and Di Coverley. Here was a difficulty which would not have arisen had it not been for the machinations of that scoundrel Sarol! And not only the couple themselves, but all the notables of Milliard City, and all the population, were anxious that this marriage should be definitely settled. In it was one of the safest guarantees of the future. That there might be no delay, Walter Tankerdon was already talking of embarking on one of the Starboard Harbour steamers with the two families to the nearest archipelago, where a mayor could proceed with the nuptial ceremony. There were mayors at Samoa, at Tonga, at the Marquesas, and in less than a week, if they went full steam—

  The wiser minds argued with the impatient young man. The people were busy getting ready for the election. In a few days the new governor would be nominated. The first act of his administration would be to celebrate with great pomp the marriage so ardently expected. The programme of the festivities would be resumed. A mayor! a mayor! That was the cry in every mouth.

  “Let us hope that these elections may not revive the rivalries that may not be entirely extinct!” said Frascolin.

  No, and Calistus Munbar had resolved to do his best to bring matters to an end.

  “Besides,” he exclaimed, “have we not our lovers? You will, I think, agree with me that self-esteem has no chance against love?”

  Floating Island continued its course to the northeast, towards the point where the twelfth degree of south latitude crosses the hundred and seventy-fifth of west longitude.

  It was in these parts that the last cablegrams sent before the stay at the New Hebrides had communicated with the supply ships loading at Madeleine Bay. Commodore Simcoe was not at all anxious regarding provisions. The reserves were enough for more than a month, and there could be no trouble on this point. It is true that foreign news was running short. The political chronicle was meagre. The Starboard Chronicle complained, the New Herald was in despair. But what mattered it? Was not Floating Island a little world in itself, and what had it to do with what happened on the rest of the terrestrial spheroid? Did it want politics? Well, there would soon be politics enough for it—perhaps too much.

  In fact the electoral contest began. The council of notables, in which the Larboardites equalled the Starboardites, was busy. It was certain that the choice of a new governor would give rise to discussions, for Jem Tankerdon and Nat Coverley would be on opposite sides.

  A few days were spent in preliminary meetings. From the outset it was evident that the parties would not agree. Secret agitation arose in the town and ports, The agents of the two sections tried to provoke a popular movement to bring pressure on the notables. As time went on, it did not seem as though an agreement could be brought about. It began to be feared that Jem Tankerdon and the principal Larboardites would now endeavour to carry out their ideas, so objected to by the Starboardites, and
make Floating Island an industrial and commercial island. Never would the other section consent to that! The more the Coverley party grew angry, the more the Tankerdon party persisted. Hence offensive recriminations, bitterness between the two camps, manifest coolness between the two families—a coolness which Walter and Di did not care to notice. What had all this rubbish about politics to do with them?

  There was a very simple way of arranging these matters, at least from an administrative point of view; that was to resolve that the two competitors should take it in turn to be governor, six months one and six months the other, even a year apiece if that seemed preferable. Then there would be no rivalry, and the arrangement would satisfy both parties. But good sense has never a chance of being adopted in this world, and though it was independent of the terrestrial continents, Floating Island was none the less subject to all the passions of sub-lunary humanity.

  “There,” said Frascolin one day to his companions. “There you have the difficulties I feared.”

  “And what do these dissensions matter to us?” replied Pinchinat. “How can they damage us? In a few months we shall be at Madeleine Bay, and our engagement will be at an end, and we can set foot on firm ground, with a little million in our pockets.”

  “If some catastrophe does not take place?” added the intractable Sebastien Zorn. “Is such a floating machine ever sure of a future? After the collision with the English ship, the invasion of the wild beasts; after the wild beasts the invasion of the New Hebrideans; after the savages the—”

  “Silence, bird of ill augury!” exclaimed Yvernès. “Silence, we will put a padlock on your beak!”

  Nevertheless, it was greatly to be regretted that the marriage had not been celebrated at the date fixed. The families being united by a new tie, the problem would be less difficult of solution. The newly married couple might intervene in a more efficacious fashion. After all, the agitation would not last, as the election would take place on the 15th of March.