Samuel Florman - The Aftermath

Queen Ranavolana was stunned and she reflexively shivered. Chaos was the milieu in which she had risen to power. Here there appeared to be order and discipline, the nemesis of her reckless aggression. Still, she braced herself and managed to stand steady, pointing her gun ever more menacingly at Captain Nordstrom and Dr. Hardy. She was by no means vanquished by this latest turn of events. These two men had allowed themselves to become her hostages, a foolish move, she thought, which they must be very much regretting. And as soon as her land army arrived from the north—glancing at her watch she could see that they should be appearing at any moment now—they would attack this surrounding force and teach them a thing or two about battle. She knew her pirates to be ferocious fighters, each one the equal of several ordinary soldiers. Nevertheless, she was momentarily overcome by that same feeling of uneasiness she had experienced in the cove the previous evening.

As the two hostile forces stood staring at each other, fingering their weapons, General White stepped out of the ranks and walked forward to confront the queen directly. He was dressed in his precisely pressed U.S. Army uniform, golden stars ablaze in the flickering light, and several rows of battle ribbons arrayed imposingly on his broad chest.

“Madam,” he said, “may I point out that you are surrounded and outnumbered. I suggest that you surrender before we have a lot of unnecessary bloodshed.”

“May I suggest,” Queen Ranavolana replied, “that you get out of our way before I decide to shoot you between the eyes.” Confrontational talk seemed to revive the lady’s spirits.

“I think this is what they call a Mexican standoff,” Wilson Hardy quipped tensely; but no one was listening.

At this moment, from just outside the village, shouting could be heard. It was a crowd of warriors chanting a Zulu battle cry, at once spine-chilling and fiercely melodious. Closer and closer came the resounding chant, until suddenly Peter Mavimbela, streaked with dust and sweat, his clothing torn and bloodied, ran into view followed by a group of Ulundi militiamen. “We beat them! We beat them to a bloody pulp!” he exclaimed. “Come on in, boys!”

Queen Ranavolana and her men stood frozen, like disbelieving statues, as the Ulundi legions marched forward with the ragtag remnants of the pirate land army in tow. Mavimbela lined up the prisoners, bedraggled and defeated, heads hanging, unable to look in the direction of their queen. The Zulu warriors, some of them bedecked in animal skins and carrying large shields, struck terror into the hearts of the pirate invaders. The threatening precision of the Engineering Village battalion was now compounded by the savage menace of the Ulundi troops; it was too much to bear.

Captain Nordstrom reached toward the queen, palm upward, and said, “I will take your weapons, Your Majesty, if you please.”

The tables were now turned, and Queen Ranavolana was prisoner of the very people she had presumed to conquer. Oddly, she seemed almost relieved, and her body was totally limp as two militia officers half-carried, half-dragged her to the council pavilion for questioning.

General White took charge of the interrogation of the queen and her three surviving subcommanders. He asked Pascal Ralaimongo—because of his knowledge of conditions on Madagascar—to join the proceedings. Also in attendance were Nordstrom, Hardy Senior, and members of the Expanded Defense Committee; but they observed in silence. Although it was now approaching midnight, Wil Hardy, the new bridegroom, was called to duty as recording secretary.

The session lasted for several hours, and as it concluded, the dawn of a new day was breaking. The general wanted to be absolutely certain that there were no more reinforcements waiting to land on the beach and fall upon Engineering Village. It became obvious from the dispirited answers given by the queen and her subcommanders that there were no other hostile forces to be concerned about, nor anyone remaining on their home island who had either the means or the desire to recruit a new army. Ralaimongo reassured the group that this was the case. General White then sought other information about the survivors across the Mozambique Channel; also the resources—or lack of resources—in that little corner of the world.

When the interrogation session ended and the prisoners were led away, Wil Hardy went up to his father and Captain Nordstrom and confronted them angrily. “Why did you keep us in the dark?” he said, “Herb and Tom and me? If you knew what was going to happen, we should have been called for duty with the militia.” First of all, young Wil wanted to do his share like everyone else. Sec ondly, how could he write about important events if he had not witnessed them himself?

His father looked from Captain Nordstrom to the younger man. “Apologies, son, but we didn’t want to alarm the populace and possibly give aid to the enemy. Also, to tell the truth, we didn’t want to spoil your wedding day.” As he noticed the sun in the East, rising out of the sea, he was almost too tired to smile.

By afternoon the Coordinating Committee was once again in session, this time trying to decide what to do with the members of the defeated army. Pascal Ralaimongo, the intrepid teacher and Malagasy elder, offered to return with them to Madagascar. He contended that without the leadership of the mad queen and her lieutenants, these brutes would not be able to function as an organized force. Besides, he was confident that with a little bit of assistance from their South African neighbors, his countrymen could organize a civil society, and that the erstwhile pirates would soon blend in with the mass of survivors. He suggested that, in a primitive tribal setting, the life of a buccaneer holds few attractions. When there is little that is worth stealing, and when survival depends mainly on group enterprise, a criminal career loses its appeal. This was a fact that the members of the Coordinating Committee had found to be true in their own community. Of course, in the long run—everyone, including Ralaimongo, agreed—as society became wealthier and more complex, human nature would be human nature, and law enforcement would once again become an important aspect of civilized society. But the long run would have to take care of itself. There were more than enough immediate problems with which to cope.

In the end, Pascal Ralaimongo’s suggestion was adopted: The invaders would be allowed to return to Madagascar. With them would go vital foodstuffs and tools, and a party of volunteers from the Ulundi Circle—doctors, engineers, and agricultural specialists. While this flotilla was being readied, an effort would be made, under Ralaimongo’s direction, to “rehabilitate” the scoundrel pirate army and prepare them for a useful life among the decent people of their homeland.

The queen and her three villainous aides would be kept in a makeshift jail in Engineering Village. There were those who wanted them shipped back with their army; but that was considered too risky. Others wanted them executed; but that was considered too barbaric, particularly in the absence of any legal code. Was there to be a limit to their term of imprisonment? Could they ever be paroled or pardoned? These vexing questions, by general consensus, would have to be decided “in the future.”

A few days later, as the time for the fleet’s planned departure was drawing near, Captain Johan Nordstrom walked on the beach studying the dozen craft that were lying at anchor. He admired especially two of them that were beautifully shaped and carefully crafted, obviously built for speedy sailing across rough seas. Suddenly, he was struck with an idea that took hold of him so forcefully that he could scarcely believe it had not occurred to him earlier. He awaited the next day’s scheduled meeting of the Coordinating Committee with great anticipation.