Papillon

Like a couple of moths drawn by the light, Maturette and I went blundering along from bar to bar. It was as we were coming out into a little brightly-lit square that I noticed the time on a church clock. Two. It was two o’clock in the morning! Quick, quick, we must hurry back. We had been behaving badly. The Salvation Army captain would have a pretty low opinion of us. We must get back at once. I hailed a taxi, which took us there. Two dollars. I paid and we walked into the hostel, very much ashamed of ourselves. A really young blonde woman-soldier of the Salvation Army, twenty-five or thirty years old, welcomed us pleasantly in the hall. She seemed neither astonished nor vexed at our coming home so late. After a few words in English – we felt they were good-natured and kind – she gave us the key of our room and said good night. We went to bed. In the suitcase I found a pair of pyjamas. As we were putting out the light, Maturette said, ‘Still, I think we might say thank you to God for having given us so much so quickly. What do you think, Papi?’

‘You thank Him for me – he’s a great guy, your God. And you’re dead right. He’s been really generous with us. Good night.’ And I turned the light out.

This rising from the dead, this breaking out from the graveyard in which I had been buried, these emotions all crowding one upon another, this night of bathing in humanity, reintegrating myself with life and mankind – all these things had been so exciting that I could not get off to sleep. I closed my eyes, and in a kind of kaleidoscope all sorts of pictures, things and feelings appeared, but in no order at all; they were sharp and clear, but they came without any regard for time – the assizes, the Conciergerie, then the lepers, then Saint-Martin-de-Ré, Tribouillard, Jesus, the storm … It was as though everything I had lived through for the past year was trying to appear at the same moment before the eye of memory in a wild, nightmarish dance. I tried to brush these pictures aside, but it was no good. And the strangest part of it was that they were all mixed up with the noise of the pigs, the shrieks of the hocco, the howling of the wind and the crash of waves, the whole wrapped in the sound of the one-stringed fiddles the Indians had been playing just a little while ago in the various bars we had visited.

Finally, at dawn, I dropped off. Towards ten o’clock there was a knock on the door. Mr. Bowen came in, smiling. ‘Good morning, friends. Still in bed? You must have come home late. Did you have a good time?’

‘Good morning. Yes, we came in late. We’re sorry.’

‘Come, come: not at all. It’s natural enough, after all you’ve been through. You certainly had to make the most of your first night as free men. I’ve come so as to go to the police-station with you. You have to appear before them to make an official declaration of having entered the country illegally. When that formality’s over we’ll go and see your friend. They X-rayed him very early this morning. They will know the results later on.’

We washed quickly and went down to the room below, where Bowen was waiting for us with the captain.

‘Good morning, my friends,’ said the captain in bad French.

‘Good morning, everybody.’

A woman officer of the Salvation Army said, ‘Did you like Port of Spain?’

‘Oh yes, Madame! It was quite a treat for us.’

After a quick cup of coffee we went to the police-station. We walked – it was only about two hundred yards. All the policemen greeted us; they looked at us without any particular curiosity. Having passed two ebony sentries in khaki uniform we went into an impressive, sparsely-furnished office. An officer of about fifty stood up: he wore shorts, a khaki shirt and tie, and he was covered with badges and medals. Speaking French he said, ‘Good morning. Sit down. I should like to talk to you for a while before officially taking your statement. How old are you?’

‘Twenty-six and nineteen.’

‘What were you sentenced for?’

‘Manslaughter.’

‘What was your sentence?’

‘Transportation and hard labour for life.’

‘Then it was for murder, not manslaughter?’

‘No, Monsieur, in my case it was manslaughter.’

‘It was murder in mine,’ said Maturette. ‘I was seventeen.’

‘At seventeen you know what you’re doing,’ said the officer. ‘In England, if it had been proved, you would have been hanged. Right. The British authorities are not here to judge the French penal system. But there’s one thing we don’t agree with, and that’s the sending of criminals to French Guiana. We know it’s an inhuman punishment and one quite unworthy of a civilized nation like France. But unfortunately you can’t stay in Trinidad, nor on any other British island. It’s impossible. So I ask you to play it straight and not try to find any excuse – sickness or anything like that – to delay your departure. You may stay here quite freely in Port of Spain for from fifteen to eighteen days. It seems that your boat is a good one. I’ll have it brought round to the harbour for you. If there are any repairs needed the Royal Navy shipwrights will carry them out for you. On leaving you will be given the necessary stores, a good compass and a chart. I hope the South American countries will take you in. Don’t go to Venezuela, because there you’ll be arrested and forced to work on the roads until finally they hand you back to the French authorities. Now a man is not necessarily lost for ever because he has gone very badly wrong on one occasion. You are young and healthy and you look decent fellows, so I hope that after what you’ve been through you will not let yourselves be defeated for good. The fact of your having come as far as here is proof enough that that’s not the case. I’m glad to be one of the factors that will help you to become sound, responsible men. Good luck. If you have any difficulties, call this number. We’ll answer in French.’ He rang a bell and a civilian came for us. Our statement was taken in a large room where several policemen and civilians were working at their typewriters.

‘Why did you come to Trinidad?’

‘To recover our strength.’

‘Where did you come from?’

‘French Guiana.’

‘In your escape, did you commit any crime? Did you kill anyone or cause grievous bodily harm?’

‘We didn’t hurt anyone seriously.’

‘How do you know?’

‘We were told before we left.’

‘Your age, legal position with regard to France …’ And so on. ‘Gentlemen, you have fifteen to eighteen days in which to rest here. During that time you are entirely free to do what you like. If you change your hotel, let us know. I am Sergeant Willy. There are two telephone numbers on my card: this one is the official police number and the other my home. If anything happens and you want my help, call me at once. We know our trust in you is well placed. I’m sure you will behave well.’

A few moments later Mr. Bowen took us to the nursing-home. Clousiot was very glad to see us. We told him nothing about our night on the town. We only said they had left us free to go wherever we liked. He was so astonished that he said, ‘Without even an escort?’

‘Yes, without even an escort.’

‘Well, they must be a quaint lot, these rosbifs.’

Bowen had gone to see the doctor and now he came back with him. He said to Clousiot, ‘Who reduced the fracture for you, before splinting your leg?’

‘Me and another guy who’s not here.’

‘You did it so well there’s no need to break the leg again. The broken fibula was put back very neatly. We’ll just plaster it and give you an iron so that you can walk a little. Would you rather stay here or go with your friends?’

‘Go with them.’

‘Well, tomorrow you’ll be able to join them.’

We poured out our thanks. Mr. Bowen and the doctor left and we spent the rest of the morning and part of the afternoon with our friend. The next day we were delighted to find ourselves all together once more, the three of us in our hostel bedroom, with the window wide open and the fans going full blast to cool the air. We congratulated one another upon how fit we looked, and we said what fine fellows we were in our new clothes. When I saw the talk was going back over the past I said, ‘Now let’s forget the past as soon as possible and concentrate on the present and the future. Where shall we go? Colombia? Panama? Costa Rica? We ought to ask Bowen about the countries where we’re likely to be admitted.’

I called Bowen at his chambers: he wasn’t there. I called his house at San Fernando, and it was his daughter who answered. After some pleasant words she said, ‘Monsieur Henri, in the Fish Market near the hostel there are buses for San Fernando. Why don’t you come and spend the afternoon with us? Do come: I’ll be expecting you.’ And there we were, all three of us on the way to San Fernando. Clousiot was particularly splendid in his snuff-coloured semi-military uniform.

We were all three deeply moved by this return to the house that had taken us in with such kindness. It seemed as though the ladies understood our emotion, for both speaking together they said, ‘So here you are, home again! Sit yourselves down comfortably.’ And now, instead of saying Monsieur each time they spoke to us, they called us by our Christian names – ‘Henri, please may I have the sugar? André [Maturette’s name was André], a little more pudding?’

Mrs. Bowen and Miss Bowen, I hope that God has rewarded you for all the great kindness you showed us, and that your noble hearts – hearts that gave us so much joy – have never known anything but perfect happiness all your lives.

With a map spread out on the table, we asked their advice. The distances were very great: seven hundred and fifty miles to reach Santa Marta, the nearest Colombian port, thirteen hundred miles to Panama; one thousand four hundred and fifty to Costa Rica. Mr. Bowen came home. ‘I’ve telephoned all the consulates, and I’ve one piece of good news – you can stay a few days at Curaçao to rest. Colombia has no set rules about escaped prisoners. As far as the consul knows no one has ever reached Colombia by sea. Nor Panama nor anywhere else, either.’

‘I know a safe place for you,’ said Margaret, Mr. Bowen’s daughter. ‘But it’s a great way off – one thousand eight hundred miles at least.’

‘Where’s that?’ asked her father.

‘British Honduras. The governor is my godfather.’

I looked at my friends and said, ‘All aboard for British Honduras.’ It was a British possession with the Republic of Honduras on the south and Mexico on the north. Helped by Margaret and her mother we spent the afternoon working out the course. First leg, Trinidad to Curaçao, six hundred and twenty-five miles: second leg, Curaçao to some island or other on our route: third leg, British Honduras.

As you can never tell what will happen at sea, we decided that in addition to the stores the police would give us, we should have a special case of tinned things to fall back on – meat, vegetables, jam, fish, etc. Margaret told us that the Salvatori Supermarket would be delighted to make us a present of them. ‘And if they won’t,’ she said simply, ‘Mama and I will buy them for you.’

‘No, Mademoiselle.’

‘Hush, Henri.’

‘No, it’s really not possible, because we have money and it wouldn’t be right to profit by your kindness when we can perfectly well buy these stores ourselves.’

The boat was at Port of Spain, afloat in a Royal Navy dock. We left our friends, promising to see one another again before we finally sailed away. Every evening we went out punctually at eleven o’clock. Clousiot sat on a bench in the liveliest square and Maturette and I took it in turns to stay with him while the other wandered about the town. We had been here now for ten days. Thanks to the iron set in his plaster, Clousiot could walk without too much difficulty. We had learnt to get to the harbour by taking a tram. We often went in the afternoons and always at night. We were known and adopted in some of the bars down there. The police on guard saluted us and everybody knew who we were and where we came from, though there was never the slightest allusion to anything whatsoever. But we noticed that in the bars where we were known they charged us less for what we ate or drank than the sailors. It was the same with the tarts. Generally speaking, whenever they sat down at a table with sailors or officers or tourists they drank non-stop and always tried to make them spend as much as possible. In the bars where there was dancing, they would never dance with anyone unless he stood them a good many drinks first. But they all behaved quite differently with us. They would stay with us for quite a time and we had to press them before they’d drink anything at all: and then it wasn’t their notorious tiny glass, but a beer or a genuine whiskey and soda. All this pleased us very much, because it was an indirect way of saying that they knew how we were fixed and that they were on our side.

The boat had been repainted and the gunwale raised six inches. The keel had been strengthened. None of her ribs had suffered, and the boat was quite sound. The mast had been replaced by a longer but lighter spar, and the flour-sack jib and staysail by good ochre-coloured canvas. At the naval basin a captain gave me a fully-graduated compass and showed me how I could find roughly where I was by using the chart. Our course for Curaçao was marked out – west by north.

The captain introduced me to a naval officer in command of the training-ship Tarpon, and he asked me if I would be so good as to go to sea at about eight the next morning and run a little way out of the harbour. I did not understand why, but I promised to do so. I was at the basin next day at the appointed time, with Maturette. A sailor came aboard with us and I sailed out of the harbour with a fair wind. Two hours later, as we were tacking in and out of the port, a man-of-war came towards us. The officers and crew, all in white, were lined up on the deck. They went by close to us and shouted ‘Hurrah!’ They turned about and dipped their ensign twice. It was an official salute whose meaning I didn’t grasp. We went back to the naval basin, where the man-of-war was already tied up at the landing-stage. As for us, we moored alongside the quay. The sailor made signs to us to follow him; we went aboard and the captain of the ship welcomed us at the top of the gangway. The bosun’s pipe saluted our coming aboard, and when we had been introduced to the officers they led us past the cadets and petty-officers lined up and standing to attention. The captain said a few words to them in English and then they fell out. A young officer explained that the captain had just told the cadets we deserved a sailor’s respect for having made such a long voyage in that little boat; he also told them we were about to make an even longer and more dangerous trip. We thanked the officer for the honour we had been paid. He made us a present of three oilskins – they were very useful to us afterwards. They were black, and they fastened with a long zip: they had hoods.

Two days before we left, Mr. Bowen came to see us with a message from the police superintendent asking us to take three relégués with us – they had been picked up a week before. These relégués had been landed on the island and according to them their companions had gone on to Venezuela. I didn’t much care for the idea, but we had been treated too handsomely to be able to refuse to take the three men aboard. I asked to see them before giving my answer. A police-car came to fetch me. I went to see the superintendent, the high-ranking officer who had questioned us when we first came. Sergeant Willy acted as interpreter.

‘How are you?’

‘Very well, thanks. We should like you to do us a favour.’

‘With pleasure, if it’s possible.’

‘There are three French relégués in our prison. They were on the island illegally for some weeks and they claim that their friends marooned them here and then sailed away. We believe it’s a trick to get us to provide them with another boat. We have to get them off the island: it would be a pity if I were forced to hand them over to the purser of the first French ship that goes by.’

‘Well, sir, I’ll do the very best I possibly can; but I’d like to talk to them first. It’s a risky thing to take three unknown men aboard, as you will certainly understand.’

‘I understand. Willy, give orders to have the three Frenchmen brought out into the courtyard.’

I wanted to see them alone and I asked the sergeant to leave us to ourselves. ‘You’re relégués?’

‘No. We’re convicts.’

‘What did you say you were relégués for, then?’

‘We thought they’d rather have a man who’d done small crimes rather than big ones. We got it wrong: we see that now. And what about you? What are you?’

‘Convict.’

‘Don’t know you.’

‘I came on the last convoy. When did you?’

‘The 1929 shipment.’

‘Me on the ’27,’ said the third man.

‘Listen: the superintendent sent for me to ask me to take you aboard – there are three of us already. He said that if I won’t and that as there’s not one of you who knows how to handle a boat, he’ll be forced to put you aboard the first French ship that goes by. What have you got to say about it?’

‘For reasons of our own we don’t want to take to the sea again. We could pretend to leave with you and then you could drop us at the end of the island and carry on with your own break.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they’ve been good to us here and I’m not going to pay them back with a kick in the teeth.’

‘Listen, brother, it seems to me you ought to put a convict before a rosbif.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re a convict yourself.’

‘Yes. But there are so many different kinds of convict that maybe there’s more difference between you and me than there is between me and the rosbifs. It all depends on where you sit.’

‘So you’re going to let us be handed over to the French authorities?’

‘No. But I’m not going to put you ashore before Curaçao, either.’

‘I don’t think I’ve the heart to begin all over again,’ said one of them.

‘Listen, have a look at the boat first. Perhaps the one you came in was no good.’

‘Right. Let’s have a go,’ said the two others.

‘OK. I’ll ask the superintendent to let you come and have a look at the boat.’

Together with Sergeant Willy we all went down to the harbour. The three guys seemed more confident once they had seen the boat.

Setting off Again

Two days later we and the three strangers left Trinidad. I can’t tell how they knew about it, but a dozen girls from the bars came down to see us go, as well as the Bowens and the Salvation Army captain. When one of the girls kissed me, Margaret laughed, and said, ‘Why, Henri, engaged so soon? You are a quick worker.’

‘Au revoir, everybody! No: good-bye! But just let me say what a great place you have in our hearts – nothing’ll ever change that.’

And at four in the afternoon we set out, towed by a tug. We were soon out of harbour, but we did not leave without wiping away a tear and gazing until the last moment at the people who had come to say good-bye and who were waving their white handkerchiefs. The moment the tug cast us off we set all our sails and headed into the first of the countless waves that we were to cross before we reached the end of our voyage.

There were two knives aboard: I wore one and Maturette the other. The axe was next to Clousiot, and so was the jungle-knife. We were certain that none of the others had any weapon. We arranged it so that only one of us should ever be asleep during the passage. Towards sunset the training-ship came and sailed along with us for half an hour. Then she dipped her ensign and parted company.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Leblond.’

‘Which convoy?’

‘’27.’

‘What sentence?’

‘Twenty years.’

‘What about you?’

‘Kargueret, 1929 convoy: fifteen years. I’m a Breton.’

‘You’re a Breton and you can’t sail a boat?’

‘That’s right.’

The third said, ‘My name’s Dufils and I come from Angers. I got life for a silly crack I made in court: otherwise it’d have been ten years at the outside. 1929 convoy.’

‘What was the crack?’

‘Well, I’d killed my wife with a flat-iron, you see. During the trial a juryman asked me why the flat-iron. I don’t know what possessed me but I told him I’d used a flat-iron on account of she needed smoothing out. According to my lawyer it was that bloody-fool remark that made them give me such a dose.’

‘Where did you all make your break from?’

‘A logging camp they call Cascade, fifty miles from Saint-Laurent. It wasn’t hard to get out – they give you a lot of freedom there. We just walked off, the five of us – nothing simpler.’

‘How come, five? Where are the other two?’

An awkward silence. Clousiot said, ‘Man, there are only straight guys here, and since we’re together we’ve got to know. Tell.’

‘I’ll tell you, then,’ said the Breton. ‘We were five when we left, all right: but the two missing guys who aren’t here now were from Cannes and they’d told us they were fishermen back at home. They paid nothing for the break because they said their work in the boat would be worth more than any money. Well, on the way we saw that neither the one nor the other knew the first thing about the sea. We were on the edge of drowning twenty times. We went creeping along the shore – first the coast of Dutch Guiana, then British Guiana, and then finally Trinidad. Between Georgetown and Trinidad I killed the one who said he would act as leader of the break. The guy had it coming to him, because to get off not paying he had lied to everyone about what a seaman he was. The other thought he was going to be killed too and he threw himself into the sea during a squall, letting go the tiller. We managed as best we could. We let the boat fill with water a good many times and in the end we smashed against a rock – it was a miracle we got out alive. I give you my word of honour everything I’ve said is the exact truth.’

‘It’s true,’ said the two others. ‘That’s just how it happened, and we all three of us agreed about killing the guy. What do you say about it, Papillon?’

‘I’m in no position to judge.’

‘But what would you have done in our place?’ insisted the Breton.

‘I’d have to think it over. You want to live through things like that to know what’s right and what’s not: otherwise you just can’t tell where the truth lies.’

Clousiot said, ‘I’d have killed him, all right. That lie might have caused the death of everyone aboard.’

‘OK. Let’s scrub it. But I’ve got a hunch you were scared through and through. You’re still scared, and you’re only at sea because there’s no choice. Is that right?’

‘Bleeding right,’ they answered all together.

‘Well then, there’s not got to be any panic here, whatever happens. Whatever happens nobody’s got to show he’s afraid. If anyone’s scared, just let him keep his trap shut. This is a good boat: it’s proved that. We’re heavier laden than we were, but then she’s been raised six inches all round. That more than compensates.’

We smoked; we drank coffee. We had had a good meal before leaving and we decided not to have another before next morning.

This was 9 December 1933, forty-two days since the break had started in the high security ward of the hospital at Saint-Laurent. It was Clousiot, the company’s accountant, who told us that. I had three very valuable things that we lacked when we set out – a waterproof steel watch bought in Trinidad, a real good compass in gimbals, and a pair of celluloid sunglasses. Clousiot and Maturette each had a cap.

Three days passed with nothing much happening, apart from our twice meeting with schools of dolphins. They made our blood run cold, because one band of eight started playing with the boat. First they’d run under it longways and come up just in front – sometimes one of them would touch us. But what really made us quake was the next caper. Three dolphins in a triangle, one in front and then two abreast, would race straight for our bows, tearing through the water. When they were within a hair’s breadth of us they would dive and then come up on the right and the left of the boat. Although we had a good breeze and we were running right before it they went still faster than we did. The game lasted for hours: it was ghastly. The slightest mistake on their part and they would have tipped us over. The three newcomers said nothing, but you should have seen their miserable faces!