The Guillotine Choice

by Michael J Malone

  When they arrived at the train station, animal wagons were provided. They were loaded into these wagons and transported to the port at Algiers, where they were paraded through the Place du Gouvernement. Again this was a warning. People of Algeria, take notice of our power.

  The square was full of people. Faces twisted in hate. Voices raised in a rapturous rage. Mohand knew that the real source of that hate was the French, but those masters of manipulation gave that hate a focus: their own people. Criminalise them, chain them together and march them through the lives of a beleaguered people and you give them a chance to vent their frustrations. A successful diversion from their real problems.

  * * *

  Once the convicts arrived at the port, still chained like animals, they were taken in barges to a ship anchored a few miles out to sea.

  Le Martinière, nicknamed the ‘White Ship’, had hailed from Ile de Ré in France. She had partly filled her hold with convicts in France, sailed across the Mediterranean to Algiers, and was now going to head through the strait of Gibraltar and across the Atlantic Ocean towards French Guiana.

  The entire time he was being transported in the small barge to the ship, Mohand could do nothing but stare at the space between his feet. He was being taken away from his family. He would never see them again. He was going… His shoulders rose and fell with the force of his sobs. The fear that almost crippled him as he left the prison found a release.

  ‘Cry all you like, boy. It will only get worse.’ Mohand heard a voice so deep it almost scraped across his ear. He turned his head to the side and took notice for the first time of the man that he had been chained to, alongside Arab and Ali. Despite the man’s hunched shape, Mohand could read strength. He looked at the man’s hands. The knuckles were scraped and swollen.

  ‘I…’ Recognition was slow in coming. The last time he saw this man he was trying to throw a bottle of wine over the wall. ‘You’re the man I…’

  ‘Stole from,’ Zaydane said. ‘No one steals from me.’ His voice was thick with threat and Mohand felt fresh fear chill his bones. ‘I won’t kill you. At first,’ said Zaydane. ‘I haven’t had a woman for some time. You’ll do. I bribed a guard. I thought about your nice firm flesh all night last night.’ He moved a hand to his crotch and slowly rubbed at his genitals. ‘Soon, my boy. Soon.’

  Mohand forced himself to look away and moved his vision towards Arab, who sat on a bench in front of him.

  ‘Don’t think he’ll be able to help you. I’ll slice him from his balls to his throat if he interferes,’ said Zaydane.

  As if aware that he was the focus of attention, Arab twisted his head round to look at his young cousin. He raised his eyebrows in question. Mohand reassured him with a similar movement. This was his fight. Although his time in prison so far had been peaceful, there was an ever-present promise of threat. He had come to understand that men in such close confines would always try to find a way to assert their power over others. So far, his youth, his brains and his personality had made others see him as a valuable ally rather than a threat.

  These assets were no longer enough.

  He had heard of older men taking on young men as lovers, forcing them with threat against their lives into becoming a mome, a passive member of a homosexual relationship.

  Mohand’s stomach churned, he forced air into his lungs. Adrenalin flooded his veins. He wiped his forehead and noticed the tremble in his hands.

  Zaydane read the tremble and smiled. That smile was the trigger. Before his brain had registered the need to act, Mohand twisted in his seat and headbutted the older man full force on his nose.

  ‘You little…’ Zaydane screamed and stood up.

  Mohand turned to face the front and donned an expression of saintliness.

  A guard took two strides towards them and clubbed the still-standing Zaydane on the back of his head with the butt of his rifle.

  ‘Sit,’ he commanded.

  Zaydane slumped to his seat with a grunt, his eyes screwed tight against the pain. Minutes later he turned to Mohand with a leer tightening the muscles of his face.

  ‘I like a boy with spirit. Just makes it all the more fun breaking you in, little boy.’

  Mohand had never been a violent person. He’d never needed to be. Friends and family learned from early on that Mohand was a person to respect. He would treat everyone with honour, but it was known that if you were to push him too much he was bound to explode. And now he also had an outlet for all his fear and fury. Let Zaydane try, he’d regret it every day of his miserable life. He formed a smile. He found himself almost enjoying this side of his personality. If he got hurt, he got hurt. He’d do anything rather than give in to this excuse for a man.

  ‘The price is too high for this piece of flesh, Zaydane. Cast your eyes elsewhere.’

  Zaydane stared in to Mohand’s eyes, read something there and reared back slightly. Mohand could read the man’s uncertainty, but then a series of thoughts played across his features and he tried to re-assert his position. What he thought was an easy trick was now about something else entirely. Something that could make him even more of a danger to Mohand. Losing face.

  * * *

  Once onboard the ship, the men were unchained by the accompanying guards and directed towards their cells below. Rubbing wrists that were suddenly painful, Mohand prayed that Zaydane would not be placed in the same cell as him. If he was, there was little chance of him having an uneventful crossing, and a strong chance that he might get badly injured.

  He forced himself to stop worrying, held his head high and determined that he would not be a victim. Arab would happily step in and fight this battle – it was something he would relish – but Mohand couldn’t allow that to happen. The men around him were different now. He could sense it in the way they held themselves and in the way that they looked at each other, and if he wanted to hold his own among them, he would have to fight his own battles. It would take more than a bloody nose to put Zaydane off.

  So pre-occupied was Mohand that he didn’t take much heed of his surroundings. He noticed a narrow flight of iron steps. Then, in single file, they were made to step into a cage faced with heavy iron bars. The entrance into the cage was so small even the shortest man had to duck on the way through.

  A guard stood at the entrance to the cage and counted each man in.

  Then, with a clang of metal, the ring of keys on a chain and an easing of the pressure from the bodies around him, he realised he had reached his berth.

  The hold had been divided into cages of iron, two hundred and fifty feet long, but only eight feet wide. The cages ran the length of the ship and had a corridor in the middle where the guards patrolled day and night.

  The first thing that struck him was the smell. Vomit and excrement. Sweat and foul breath. Next was that the cell had already been half-full before they arrived. These new faces would be Frenchmen, Mohand judged, as the boat had already been to mainland France to pick up undesirables from there. While the rest of the new men with him looked around themselves, Mohand quickly read the situation. The cell’s earlier inhabitants had organised themselves in small groups. Their hammocks were hanging from large hooks welded into the frame of the cell.

  Looking around him, Mohand could see that there weren’t enough hooks for all of the new arrivals. With a nod and a grunt to Arab and Ali, he took out the hammock from his haversack, moved to a collection of empty hooks, and hung up his hammock. Arab and Ali quickly followed suit.

  Other men soon realised what was going on and copied them. No one wanted to be left sleeping on the floor. Mohand had realised what the implications of the horrible smells were. If anyone was sick, or the piss buckets spilled from the rocking of the boat, those men forced to lie on the floor would have a wretched time.

  Voices were raised. Fights broke out. Hammocks were torn from their hooks. The old and the weak were left to bemoan their lack of power. Mohand, Arab and Ali stood firm in their triangle. They would not be beaten and th
ey had found a corner where they could set up ‘home’ for the next couple of months. If someone tried to take on one of them, they had to face all three. Arab already had a fearsome reputation and by now everyone knew how Mohand had reacted to Zaydane. He had won a similar form of respect.

  Having gained their own space, or stolen it from someone else, the caged men turned inwards and studied their fears. What would come of them? Would they survive the crossing? Some men groaned with fear, some wept openly, those lucky enough to be in position near a porthole crowded round the space for a last glimpse of their home.

  Even had he been close enough to do so, Mohand wasn’t sure he could have looked. He climbed into his hammock and fought back the feeling of hopelessness that threatened to engulf him. Zaydane’s threats would have to be faced, and soon, but for now he could only mourn the loss of his family and home.

  The ship’s whistle sounded above their heads. The floor began to vibrate. The sound of despair from the caged men began to grow.

  Mohand noticed little of this; he was thinking of his family and the pain they must be suffering. He vowed to consider that part of his life dead, for that was the only way he could survive with his spirit intact. He allowed himself the luxury of replaying the moment when he last set eyes on his family.

  They were there in the crowd, just a few hundred metres from the prison gates. Something made him look up and, among the faces filled with hate, were the faces of stone of his family. Hadj Yahia, Dahmane, Amar, Hana Addidi, Saada and numerous cousins. All waiting to get their last glimpse of him, Ali and perhaps even Arab. As soon as they saw that he had spotted them, they started shouting his name.

  He was not able to shout back, but he met each and every one of them eye to eye with a look that he hoped said everything. He tried to give more time to his father and Saada. As he moved closer to them, they seemed to fade before his eyes, grow watery and indistinct.

  Only then did he realise that he was weeping. His limbs grew heavier, his chest tightened but all he could do was form one word over and over and over again. Adieu.

  PART TWO

  DEVIL’S ISLAND

  ONE

  The Crossing

  As part of his education with the French, Mohand had been given Bible classes. A strong part of those classes was a description of the threat of eternal damnation: a place the Christians called Hell, where the heat would be unbearable, the pain unendurable and there would be no future other than a continuation of this.

  The first night aboard ship was a taste of what that might be like.

  They were enveloped in darkness so total that when Mohand held his hand before his face he could see nothing. When he stuck out his tongue, he could almost taste the blackness.

  This was a darkness that certain men would take advantage of.

  The vessel rolled and pitched in strong seas. Man after man succumbed to seasickness and vomited on to the floor. The latrine bucket was soon overflowing and excrement joined the bile on the floor. Mohand covered his face with his hat in a feeble attempt to counter the smell.

  All along the ship, moans filled the air. Grunts and shouts assaulted his ears. Another fight sounded in the neighbouring cage. Fist on bone. A grunt and it was over. Men continued to fight each other. Power was the medal they sought. Some gave in for the hope of an easier life. Others fought for any meagre amount of status they could find.

  Mohand lay in his hammock with his knees pulled up to his chin.

  He felt a hand on his neck. From there it moved to his shoulder.

  He slapped it away as if it was a giant spider.

  ‘It’s only me, you fucking idiot,’ said Arab.

  Mohand grunted.

  ‘You okay?’ Arab asked.

  ‘Happy as a honey badger with his snout deep in the hive,’ Mohand replied. To his own ears his voice sounded as if it was strung on a tremble.

  Arab didn’t appear to notice.

  ‘Good for you, cousin.’ Arab grunted a laugh. ‘Try to get some sleep. I’ll keep watch.’

  ‘Ali?’ Mohand asked into the dark.

  ‘Leave me alone,’ Ali replied. ‘I was…’ Ali vomited on to the floor. After several minutes of heaving into the darkness he lay back into his hammock. ‘If men were meant to sail on oceans…’ Whatever he was about to say next was lost as he began to retch once again.

  Mohand was still staring into the space above his head when a weak morning light began to illuminate the ceiling of his cage. A pattern of holes, arranged in neat lines, could be seen in the metal. He craned his neck forward for a better look, wondering what they could possibly be for.

  ‘Steam,’ a voice sounded beside him.

  He turned to his side to face the man who spoke.

  ‘Henri Charriere,’ the fellow offered with a nod.

  ‘Mohand. You can call me Mohand.’

  ‘Good. Keep the tough guy act going,’ he grinned. ‘And find yourself a weapon.’

  Mohand sat up in his hammock. He looked down at the floor for a clean space to step into. He found none and stayed where he was.

  ‘If any steam comes from those holes, it will be hot enough to scald the skin from your face.’

  Mohand’s face screwed up in amazement that men could think of such a thing to punish other men.

  ‘There are many dangerous men in these cages. It’s how they keep control of us.’

  Mohand looked at the man for any guile in his words. He would trust no one until they earned it. But this man appeared to be no danger, indeed he looked almost relaxed.

  ‘What do you know about Devil’s Island?’ Mohand asked.

  ‘The Bagne de Cayenne has a dreadful reputation.’

  A man behind Henri sat up and punched him on the arm. ‘Don’t be filling the boy’s head with nonsense. He’ll learn soon enough how bad it is.’ This fellow then nodded at Mohand. ‘Jean,’ he said. ‘And I’ve already had one stretch. I’m being sent back for good behaviour,’ he finished with a grin.

  Jean was a tall man and the sagging skin under his chin suggested he had, until fairly recently, been much broader. He assessed Mohand.

  ‘Arab?’

  ‘Berber.’

  ‘Apologies, my young friend. You are young, aren’t you? How long have you got?’

  ‘Twenty years, plus doublage.’

  A long, low whistle.

  ‘My advice: stay away from the logging camps and you’ll live to see the end of those years.’

  He seemed almost jovial and Mohand could only stare at him as if he was another species. The three men continued to talk and, as the light strengthened about them, Mohand’s night fears began to fade like a dream. There was something about the daylight and the normal tone of these men’s voices that held his worries back, much like a campfire might push back the dark of a forest.

  ‘The newspapers in France are full of this place.’ The man named Henri was speaking again. ‘It seems that men are always escaping. Each time, their name and story appear…’

  ‘Yes, and what the newspapers don’t report are the recaptures,’ Jean interrupted, ‘or the skeletons found in the jungle, or the shark-bitten corpses washed onto the shore.’

  ‘Don’t,’ Henri grinned, ‘you’ll put me off my breakfast.’

  Despite the stench, Mohand felt his stomach groan.

  ‘Do we get breakfast?’

  ‘Eggs Benedict,’ Jean nodded somberly. ‘Followed by a croissant from the best baker in Paris.’

  ‘Prepare to go hungry, my young friend,’ said Henri. ‘Or hope that more men die during the voyage.’

  ‘Shut up, Charriere. The boy has enough to worry about.’ Jean glared at his friend and then turned to Mohand. ‘This ship is run as a private business. The captain feeds us as little as he can get away with while maximising his profits.’

  ‘We’re also supposed to get some wine every day. But the guards make up a charge and confiscate it for their own use.’ Henri spat on the floor. ‘Cochons.’

  Mor
e men around them began to stir as the light grew. Up and down the cages, the hum of conversation filled the air. The men who had come over from France on the first part of the voyage were more relaxed. Their minds were already at work, shaping some sort of normality from the extraordinary situation they were in. Therefore, this was just another day on the voyage to hell. For the Algerians this was their first full day aboard ship and, to a man, they were on edge and wary of what to expect.

  The thud of several booted feet caused conversation to stop. A guard stood before each cage with a basket of bread.

  ‘You,’ a guard shouted while pointing at Henri. ‘Take this food to your cellmates. Any fighting over this and the steam will be turned on.’

  Under watch of the guard, Henri took the bread and doled it out, making sure that plenty was given to Jean and Mohand, who tore a chunk off a long stick and handed it to Arab and Ali. Both of whom were by now as unmindful of the stench as he was and ate with gusto.

  Much too soon the meal was over and the new men huddled in groups, watching where they placed their feet and wondering what would happen next.

  ‘The guards will soon come for us and take us up on deck,’ Henri said to Mohand. ‘We get half an hour of fresh air while they clean the shit off the floor.’

  This was a huge relief to Mohand. If this was the state of the floor after just one night, he was thinking they’d be up to their knees in vomit and excrement by the end of the journey.

  ‘Right, bastards,’ a shout erupted down the length of the cages, and a baton rattled against steel bars. ‘Silence. Any man who speaks will get an hour in the hot cells.’

  Mohand turned to Jean and Henri, his expression a question. What’s going on?