We’d now been in the hospital three weeks less two days. We had only ten to fifteen days maximum to try for a break. Today, a memorable day—the twenty-first of November, 1933—Joanes Clousiot came into the room. Someone had tried to kill him at the barber’s on Saint-Martin. He was almost blind; his eyes were shut tight and were full of pus. Once Chatal had left, I went over to him. He told me that the other internees had left for the islands more than two weeks before but that he’d managed to get left behind. An official warned him three days before they were to leave. He had put castor oil grains in his eyes, they abscessed, and the infection had got him into the hospital. He was game for anything and crazy to get going, even if he had to kill to do it. He had three thousand francs. Once his eyes were bathed with warm water, he would be able to see fine. I explained my escape plan. He liked it, but he said that if we were going to take the guards by surprise, there would have to be three of us. We could remove the legs of the beds, and armed with an iron leg each, we could knock them all out. According to him, even if we had their rifles, they wouldn’t believe we’d really shoot and they’d go alert the guards in the building Julot has escaped from, which was at least twenty yards away.
THIRD NOTEBOOK
THE FIRST CAVALE
ESCAPE FROM THE HOSPITAL
TONIGHT I BUTTONHOLED DEGA, THEN Fernandez. Dega said he had no confidence in the plan but that he would pay any amount of money to get his internment lifted. He asked me to write Sierra, tell him that it had been suggested to him and was it at all possible? On the same day Chatal brought back the answer: “Don’t pay anybody to lift your internment. It has to come from France, and no one, not even the director of the penitentiary, can do it. If you’re desperate, you can try to get out, but only the day after the boat—the Mana—leaves for the islands.”
We had eight days left before we were to leave for the islands, and I began to think it might be better to escape from there rather than from our room in the hospital. In the same note Sierra had said that if I wanted to, he would send a liberated convict to talk to me and help me prepare a boat behind the hospital. He was from Toulouse, his name was Jésus, and he had prepared Dr. Bougrat’s escape two years earlier. In order to see him, I’d have to go for X-rays in another building. This place was built into the hospital wall; the libérés were provided access with fake passes. He warned me that before being X-rayed I should remove my plan, for the doctor might notice it if he took a picture of me below my lungs. I sent Sierra a note telling him to send Jésus to X-ray and to get together with Chatal to have me sent too. That same night Sierra told me it would be the day after tomorrow at nine.
The next day Dega and Fernandez both asked to leave the hospital. The Mana had left that morning. They hoped to escape from their cells in the camp. I wished them good luck; my plans were unchanged.
I met Jésus. He was an old libéré, as dry as smoked fish, with two ugly scars across his weathered face. One eye wept all the time. Ugly face, ugly expression. He didn’t give me confidence, and the future proved me right. We spoke quickly.
“I can fix you up a boat for four or at most five men. A barrel of water, food, coffee and tobacco. Three paddles, empty flour sacks, needle and thread to make the mainsail and a jib. A compass, a hatchet, a knife, five quarts of rum. All for twenty-five hundred francs. There’ll be no moon in three days. Starting on the fourth, if you agree, I’ll wait for you in the boat every night for eight days from eleven to three in the morning. Once the moon shows the first quarter, I’ll stop waiting. The boat will be exactly opposite the corner of the hospital wall. Guide yourself by feeling the wall, for you won’t be able to see it even from six feet away.”
I didn’t trust him, but I still said yes.
“What about the money?” Jésus asked.
“I’ll send it through Sierra.”
We parted without shaking hands. Not a good start.
At three o’clock Chatal went to the camp to give Sierra the money: two thousand five hundred francs. It’s thanks to Galgani I have this money to gamble, I reflected, and it’s risky. Just so long as he doesn’t spend it all on rum!
Clousiot was ecstatic; he was full of confidence—in himself, in me and in the project. Only one thing bothered him: the Arab didn’t come every night, and when he did come it was usually too early. Then there was another problem: who to pick for a third. There was a Corsican from the Nice underworld named Biaggi. He’d been in the bagne since 1929 and was now in the maximum-security ward under suspicion of having killed a man. Clousiot and I discussed whether we should speak to him and when. While we were talking, a boy of about eighteen came up to us. He was as pretty as a girl. His name was Maturette and he had been condemned to death for the murder of a taxi driver, then given a reprieve because of his age—at the time, seventeen. There had been two of them, a sixteen- and a seventeen-year-old, and when they appeared in court, each declared he’d killed the taxi driver. But the driver had been hit by only one bullet. Their behavior in court aroused all the cons’ sympathies.
Maturette approached us and, in his girlish voice, asked us for a light. We gave it to him and I threw in a present of four cigarettes and a box of matches. He thanked me with a seductive smile and we let him go.
Suddenly Clousiot said, “Papi, we’re saved. I know how we can get that Arab in here as often and any time we like. It’s in the bag.”
“How do you figure?”
“It’s easy. We’ll tell that kid, Maturette, to make the Arab fall in love with him. Arabs like boys, you know. It’s a cinch he’ll want to screw him. All the kid has to do is put on an act, saying he’s afraid of being seen, and we’ve got the Arab coming in exactly when we want him.”
“Let’s give it a try.”
I went over to Maturette; he received me with another seductive smile. He thought he’d aroused me with the first one. I said straight off, “I just want to talk to you. Come into the toilets.” We went in and I began, “If you repeat one word of what I’m about to say, you’re a dead man. Here it is.” I told him our plan and asked him how much money he wanted, or did he want to escape with us?
“I want to escape with you.”
Agreed. We shook on it.
He went off to sleep and, after a few words with Clousiot, I did too. The next night, at eight o’clock, Maturette sat down next to the window. The Arab didn’t need to be called. He came by himself and they talked in low voices. At ten o’clock Maturette went to bed. We had been in bed with one eye open since nine. The Arab came into the room, made the rounds twice, found one man dead. He knocked on the door, and soon afterward two stretcher-bearers came and took the corpse away. Corpses turned out to be useful for they justified frequent visits by the Arab at any hour of the night. Following our advice, Maturette made an assignation the next night for eleven o’clock. The turnkey arrived on time, passed by the boy’s bed, pulled his feet to wake him up, then went on to the toilets. Maturette followed. Fifteen minutes later the turnkey came out, went straight to the door and left. At the same time Maturette went back to his bed without speaking. The next night the same thing, but at midnight. Everything was working like a dream. The Arab came whenever the boy asked him to.
At four in the afternoon on November 27, 1933, with two legs of the bed ready as bludgeons, I waited for word from Sierra. Chatal, the orderly, arrived but without a note. All he said was, “François Sierra told me to tell you that Jésus is waiting at the stated place. Good luck.”
At eight in the evening Maturette said to the Arab, “Come after midnight. That way we can be together longer.”
The Arab said he would. On the stroke of midnight we were ready. The Arab came in at quarter past twelve, went straight to Maturette’s bed, pulled his feet and continued toward the toilets. Maturette followed him. I yanked the leg off my bed; it made a noise as it fell. Clousiot’s made no sound. I was to stand behind the door and Clousiot was to walk up to the Arab to attract his attention. After a twenty-minute wait everyth
ing went very fast. The Arab came out of the toilets and, surprised at seeing Clousiot, said:
“What are you doing in the middle of the room at this hour of the night? Get back into bed.”
Then I whacked him on the head and he fell without a sound. Quickly I put on his clothes and shoes. We dragged him under the bed and, just before we pushed him completely under, I gave him another crack on the back of the neck. Now he was really out.
Not one of the men in the room budged. I went straight to the door, followed by Clousiot and Maturette, who were both in their smocks. I knocked, the guard opened up, and I swung my iron leg, whack! right on his head. The other guard facing us dropped his carbine; he must have been asleep. Before he could react, I smacked him. None of mine made a sound; Clousiot’s said “Ah!” before collapsing on the floor. My two guards were still on their chairs, the third was stretched out stiff. We held our breaths. To us, that “Ah!” had been heard by the entire world. It was certainly loud enough, yet no one moved. We left them where they lay and took off with their three carbines, Clousiot first, the kid in the middle and me last. We ran down the dimly lit stairs. Clousiot had left his bed leg behind; I kept mine in my left hand, the rifle in my right. Downstairs, nothing. Around us the night was as dark as ink. We had to look hard to find the wall next to the river. We went as fast as we could. Once at the wall, I made a footrest with my hands. Clousiot climbed up, straddled the wall, pulled Maturette up, then me. We slid down the other side. Clousiot fell into a hole and hurt his foot. Maturette and I made it without trouble. We both got up; we had abandoned the rifles before jumping. But when Clousiot tried to get up, he couldn’t. He said he had broken his leg. I left Maturette with Clousiot and ran toward the corner of the wall, feeling along with my hand. It was so dark that I didn’t see when I came to the end of the wall, and when my hand kept on going, I fell flat on my face. Down by the river, I heard a voice:
“Is that you?”
“Yes. Jésus?”
“Yes.”
He lit a match. I stepped into the water and waded over to him. There were two men.
“You get in first. Who are you?”
“Papillon.”
“O.K.”
“Jésus, we have to go back up. My friend broke his leg jumping off the wall.”
“Then take this paddle and row.”
The three paddles dipped into the water and the boat quickly made the hundred yards between us and the place where I thought they were—for we could see nothing. I called, “Clousiot!”
“For Christ’s sake, don’t talk. L’Enflé, use your lighter.” A few sparks flew off; they saw them. Clousiot gave a whistle between his teeth—a Lyon whistle; it makes no noise, but you can hear it clearly, like the hiss of a snake. He kept whistling until we came abreast. L’Enflé got out, picked Clousiot up in his arms and placed him in the boat. Then Maturette climbed in and finally L’Enflé. We were five, and the water came to within two fingers of the gunwales.
“Nobody move without a warning,” Jésus said. “Papillon, stop paddling; put your paddle across your knees. Let’s go, L’Enflé!”
Helped by the current, the boat plunged into the night. A third of a mile downstream, we passed the penitentiary. We were in the middle of the river and the current was carrying us at an incredible speed. L’Enflé was feathering his paddle. Jésus kept the boat steady, the handle of his paddle tight against his thigh—not paddling, just steering.
Then Jésus said, “Now we can smoke. It went all right, I think. You’re sure you didn’t kill anybody?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Goddammit! You double-crossed me, Jésus?” L’Enflé said. “You said it was a simple cavale. Now it seems it’s a cavale of internees.”
“That’s right, they’re internees. I didn’t tell you, L’Enflé, because you wouldn’t have helped me and I had to have another man. Relax. If we’re caught, I’ll take all the blame.”
“You’d better, Jésus. For the hundred francs you paid me, I don’t want to risk my neck if somebody got killed or wounded.”
I said, “L’Enflé, I’ll make you a present of a thousand francs for the two of you.”
“All right then, mec. That’s fair enough. Thanks. We’re dying of hunger in the village. It’s worse being liberated than in prison. In prison you at least get food every day, and clothes.”
“Mec,” Jésus asked Clousiot, “does it hurt a lot?”
“Not too bad,” Clousiot said. “But how are we going to make it with my leg broken, Papillon?”
“We’ll see. Where are we going, Jésus?”
“I’m going to hide you up a creek about twelve miles from the mouth of the river. You stay there eight days until the guards and the man hunters give up looking. You want them to think you went down the Maroni and into the sea on the same night. The man hunters use boats without engines. A fire, talking, coughing could be fatal if they’re anywhere near. The guards use motor-boats; they’re too big to go up the creek—they’d run aground.”
The night grew lighter. It was nearly four in the morning when, after a long search, we finally came to the hiding place known only to Jésus. We were literally in the bush. The boat flattened the short brush, but once we had passed over it, it straightened up again, providing a thick protective screen. It would take a sorcerer to know that there was enough water here to float a boat. We entered the creek, then spent over an hour penetrating the brush and separating the branches that barred our passage. Suddenly we found ourselves in a kind of canal and we stopped. The bank was neat and green and the trees huge, their foliage so thick that daylight—it was now six o’clock—couldn’t get through. Thousands of beasts we had never heard of lived under this impressive canopy. Jésus said, “This is where you stay for eight days. On the seventh I’ll come and bring you supplies.” He untangled the thick vegetation and pulled out a tiny dugout six feet long. Inside were two paddles. This was the boat to take him back to Saint-Laurent on the rising tide.
It was now time to do something about Clousiot, who was stretched out on the bank. He was still wearing only his smock, so his legs were bare. With our hatchet we split some dried branches to serve as splints. L’Enflé pulled on his foot and Clousiot broke into a heavy sweat. Suddenly he said, “Stop! It hurts less like that. The bone must be in place.” We arranged the splints and tied them with a new hemp rope we found in the boat. The pain eased. Jésus had brought four pairs of pants, four shirts and four wool sweaters originally intended for relégués. Maturette and Clousiot put them on; I stayed in the Arab’s clothes. We drank some rum. It was the second bottle since our departure. It warmed us. Mosquitoes attacked without mercy, forcing us to sacrifice a packet of tobacco. We put it to soak in a water bottle and spread the nicotine juice on our faces, hands and feet. The wool sweaters kept us warm in the penetrating damp.
L’Enflé said, “We’re off. What about the thousand francs you promised?” I went off for a moment and returned with a brand-new thousand-franc bill.
“So long. Don’t move from here for eight days,” Jésus said. “We’ll be back on the seventh. On the eighth you go out to sea. While you’re waiting, make your sail, your jib, and get the boat ready. Put everything in its place, fix the pins in the rudder and mount it on the rear. If we haven’t come after ten days, we’ve been arrested. There’ll be bloody hell to pay because you attacked those guards.”
Then Clousiot told us that he hadn’t left his carbine at the base of the wall. He had thrown it over the wall and the river was so near—which he didn’t know then—that it must have fallen into the water. Jésus said that was a good thing, for if it weren’t found, the man hunters would think we were armed. Now we could relax a little: they were armed only with revolvers and machetes, and if they thought we had a carbine, they wouldn’t go out of their way to find us. Well, so long. If we were discovered and had to abandon the boat, we were to follow the creek upstream until we hit dry land. Then, with the compass, we should keep going
north. There was a good chance that after two or three days we’d come to the death camp called Charvein. Once there, we’d have to bribe someone to tell Jésus where we were.
The two old cons left. A few minutes later their dugout had disappeared. We could hear nothing, see nothing.
Daylight penetrated the brush in a very peculiar way. It was as if we were in an arcade where the sun reached the top but allowed no rays to filter down. It began to get hot. And there we were, alone: Maturette, Clousiot and me. Our first reflex was to laugh—it had gone like clockwork. The only inconvenience was Clousiot’s leg. But he said that with the strips of wood around it he was okay. He would like it if we made some coffee. It was quickly done. We made a fire and each drank a mug of black coffee sweetened with brown sugar. It was delicious. We had spent so much energy since the night before that I didn’t have the strength to examine our equipment or inspect the boat. That could come later. We were free, free, free. We had arrived at the bagne exactly thirty-seven days before. If the cavale succeeded, my life sentence would not have been very long. I said, “Mr. President, how long does hard labor for life last in France?” and I burst out laughing. Maturette, who also had a life sentence, did too. Clousiot said, “Don’t crow yet. Colombia is still far away, and this boat doesn’t look all that seaworthy to me.”
I didn’t answer because up to the last minute I had thought this boat was only to bring us to where the real one was. When I discovered that I was wrong, I didn’t dare say anything for fear of upsetting my friends. And also, since Jésus seemed to think it was perfectly normal, I didn’t want to give the impression that I didn’t know the kind of boats normally used for escapes.
We spent the first day talking and getting acquainted with this new unknown, the bush. Monkeys and a small species of squirrel made terrifying somersaults over our heads. A troop of small wild pigs came to drink and bathe in the creek. There must have been at least two thousand of them. They came down to the creek and swam, tearing at the hanging roots. An alligator emerged from God knows where and caught one of them by the foot. The pig started to squeal like a lost soul, and the other pigs attacked the alligator, climbing on top of him and trying to bite him at the corners of his enormous mouth. With each whack of his tail the alligator sent a pig flying. One of them was killed and floated on the surface with its belly in the air. His companions immediately set to eating him. The creek was full of blood. The spectacle lasted twenty minutes, until the alligator took off through the water. We never saw him again.
Papillon Page 7
