Papillon

by Henri Charrière

  I fell asleep as day was breaking.

  At ten o’clock there was a knock on the door. It was Mr. Bowen. He said, smiling, “Good morning. Still in bed? You must have come in late. Did you have a good time?”

  “Good morning. Yes, we did come in late. Please forgive us.”

  “What on earth for? It’s perfectly natural after what you’ve been through. You had to take advantage of your first night as free men. I’ve come to take you over to the police station. You have to go there to make the official declaration that you entered the country illegally. When that formality is over, we’ll go see your friend. They took X-rays of him early this morning. We’ll know the results soon.”

  We got dressed and went to the room downstairs where Bowen and the captain were waiting for us.

  “Good morning, my friends,” the captain said in his bad French.

  “Good morning, everybody. How are things with you?” a lady officer of the Salvation Army asked. “Did you find Port of Spain to your liking?”

  “Oh, yes! We had a very good time.”

  We had some coffee and walked to the police station, which was only two hundred yards from the hostel. The police saluted us without any particular interest. We passed between two black guards in khaki uniforms and were led into a severe and imposing office. An officer rose to his feet; he was about fifty and dressed in shorts and a khaki shirt covered with medals. He addressed us in French: “Good morning. Please sit down. Before we get to your official declaration, I’d like to ask you a few questions. How old are you?”

  “We’re twenty-six and nineteen.”

  “What was your crime?”

  “Murder.”

  “What’s your sentence?”

  “Hard labor for life.”

  “So it was first-degree murder?”

  “No, sir, mine was second degree.”

  “Mine was first degree,” Maturette said, “but I was only seventeen.”

  “At seventeen you know what you’re doing,” the officer said. “In England you would have been hanged. However, it’s not for British authorities to judge French justice. What we don’t approve of is the way they send their convicts to French Guiana. It’s inhuman and unworthy of a civilized nation like France. But unfortunately you cannot stay in Trinidad or any of the British islands. And I must ask you to be straight with us and not try to find some way to get around it, an illness or some other pretext to put off your departure. You are free to stay in Port of Spain for eighteen days. Apparently you have a good boat. I’m going to have it moved here to the port. If it needs repairs, Royal Navy workmen will make them. You’ll be given all the food you need for your trip, as well as a good compass and a marine map. I hope some South American country will accept you. Don’t go to Venezuela for you’ll be arrested and put on a road gang until they decide to turn you over to the French authorities. Your offense may have been serious, but that still doesn’t mean your lives should be ruined forever. You’re young and healthy, you look like decent boys, so I hope that after what you’ve been through, you won’t accept permanent defeat. The fact that you made it here suggests you won’t. I’m happy I can have a hand in helping you become responsible members of society. Good luck. If you have any problems, telephone this number and there’ll be somebody you can speak French to.”

  He rang a bell and a civilian came for us. We were taken to a room where several policemen and civilians were typing, and one of them took down our declaration.

  “Why did you come to Trinidad?”

  “It was a stopover.”

  “Where did you come from?”

  “French Guiana.”

  “When you made your escape, did you commit any offense, did you injure or kill anyone?”

  “No one was seriously hurt.”

  “How do you know?”

  “We knew it before we left.”

  We gave him our ages, our penal situation as regards the French, and all the rest of it. Then he said, “You can stay here for up to eighteen days. During that time you are free to do whatever you like. If you change hostels, let us know. I am Sergeant Willy. Here’s my card with two telephone numbers: one is my official police number, the other, my private number. If anything should happen to you, if you need help, call me immediately. We know you’re worthy of our confidence. I’m sure you’ll behave.”

  A little later Mr. Bowen accompanied us to the clinic. Clousiot was happy to see us. We didn’t say anything about our night on the town. All we told him was that we were free to come and go as we pleased.

  That surprised him and he asked, “With no escort?”

  “Yes, with no escort.”

  “These ‘roast-beefs’ are a funny people.”

  Bowen had gone to find the doctor and now returned with him. He asked Clousiot, “Who set the fracture?”

  “Me and another man who isn’t here.”

  “You did it so well we won’t need to reset the leg. The broken fibula is right back in place. We’ll just make you a cast with an iron peg so that you can walk around a bit. Do you want to stay here or would you rather go with your friends?”

  “Go with them.”

  “All right. You can leave tomorrow morning.”

  We thanked him profusely. The doctor and Mr. Bowen went their way and we spent the rest of the morning and a part of the afternoon with Clousiot. We were overjoyed when we found ourselves together again the next morning in our hostel room with the window wide open and the fans cooling the air. We congratulated ourselves on how healthy we looked and what fine figures we cut in our new clothes. But when the conversation started to turn to the past, I said:

  “We must forget the past and think only about the present and future. Where we should go, for example. To Colombia? Panama? Costa Rica? We ought to ask Bowen what countries are most likely to admit us.”

  I called Bowen at his office; he wasn’t there. I called him at home in San Fernando; his daughter answered. We talked for a while, and then she said, “Mr. Henri, there are buses to San Fernando that leave from the French market right near your hostel. Why don’t you come and spend the afternoon here? Please do. I’ll be expecting you.” So all three of us set off for San Fernando, Clousiot magnificent in his new slightly military-looking brown suit.

  It touched us to return to the house that had given us such a warm welcome. The two women must have understood our feelings, for they said, “You’re back in your own home, dear friends.” And they now addressed us by our first names: “Henri, may I have the sugar?” or “André [that was Maturette’s name], would you like something more?”

  Dear Mrs. and Miss Bowen, I hope God has repaid you for all your kindness and that your generous souls have known only perfect happiness since that day.

  We spread a map on the table and made our plans. The distances were long: seven hundred and twenty miles to the first Colombian port of Santa Marta; twelve hundred miles to Panama; fifteen hundred to Costa Rica.

  Mr. Bowen returned. “I telephoned all the consulates and I have good news,” he said. “You can stay over a few days in Curaçao to rest up. And Colombia has no established procedures for escaped convicts. So far as the consul knows, no convict has ever arrived in Colombia by sea, or in Panama, or anywhere else.”

  “I have an idea,” Margaret, Mr. Bowen’s daughter, said. “But it’s terribly far—eighteen hundred miles at least.”

  “Where’s that?” her father asked.

  “British Honduras. You might find help there because the governor is my godfather.”

  I looked at my friends and said, “Destination British Honduras.” It’s a British possession bordering Mexico to the north and Guatemala on the west and south.

  With the help of Margaret and her mother, we spent the afternoon mapping our route. First lap—Curaçao, six hundred miles. Second lap—Curaçao to whatever island crossed our path. Third lap—British Honduras.

  Since you never knew what to expect at sea, it was decided that we should have a sp
ecial case of canned foods—meats, vegetables, jams, fish, etc.—to supplement the provisions given us by the police. Margaret thought Salvattori’s Supermarket would be glad to give us our supplies as a present. “But if they won’t,” she added, “Mummy and I will buy them for you.”

  “No, indeed.”

  “Be quiet, Henri.”

  “No, I won’t let you. We have money of our own; it would be wrong of us to take advantage of your kindness when we can easily pay for the things ourselves.”

  We parted with the promise that we would make one last visit before the big departure.

  Every evening we went on the town at eleven o’clock. Clousiot sat on a bench in the square where there was the most activity, and Maturette and I took turns keeping him company while the other roamed the town. We had now been here ten days. Clousiot walked with little difficulty, thanks to the iron peg on his cast. We learned how to get to the port by streetcar and were considered regulars in several of the bars. The police saluted us; everybody knew who we were and where we’d come from, but nobody ever mentioned it. We did notice that the bars where we were known charged us less for food and drink than they did the sailors. So did the girls. Usually, when the girls sat with sailors, officers or tourists, they drank all the time and tried to make them spend as much as possible. In the bars where there was dancing, they never danced with a man unless he had bought them several drinks first. But with us it was different. They sat with us for long periods and wouldn’t have a drink unless we insisted. And when they did accept one, it wasn’t one of their famous tiny drinks but a beer or a real whiskey and soda. This pleased us, for it was their way of saying that they knew our situation and sympathized.

  The boat was in Port of Spain in the Royal Navy Yard. It had been repainted, an additional six inches added to the gunwales and the keel strengthened. It looked in good shape. They replaced the mast with a higher and lighter one, and the flour sacks we had had for jib and spinnaker were replaced with a strong, ocher-colored sailcloth. A navy captain presented me with a proper compass and showed me how to use it with the map to determine our position. Our route to Curaçao would be one point north of due west.

  The captain introduced me to a naval officer who was the commander of a school ship called the Tarpon. He asked me if I would please sail out of the port the following morning about eight o’clock. I was mystified, but agreed. The next morning Maturette and I went to the naval base. A sailor joined us and we put out in a good wind. Two hours later, as we were tacking in and out of the port, a warship suddenly appeared. The entire crew and all the officers were lined up on the deck in full dress. As they passed us, they yelled “Hurrah!” and dipped their colors twice. It was some kind of official salute, but I didn’t have the faintest idea what it meant. We returned to the base, where the warship was already tied up. We moored, too, and the sailor made us a sign to follow him. We went aboard and the commander received us on the bridge. A blast of the whistle announced our arrival, and after we were introduced to the officers, they had us pass in front of the students and petty officers who were standing at attention. The commander spoke a few words in English and then everybody broke ranks. A young officer explained to us that the commander had told the students that we deserved their respect for having made such a long trip in such a small boat and that we were about to set off on a still longer and more dangerous voyage. We thanked the officer for the honor. He made us a present of three oilskins and, as it turned out, they served us well. They were black, with hoods and heavy zippers.

  Two days before we were to leave, Mr. Bowen came to ask if, as a favor to the chief of police, we would take with us three relégués arrested the week before. They had been left on the island by their companions who had gone on to Venezuela, or so they said. I didn’t like the idea, but we’d been too well treated to say no. I asked if I could meet these cons before giving my final answer. A police car came for me and I went in to speak to the chief. He turned out to be the officer who had interrogated us at the time of our arrival. Sergeant Willy acted as interpreter.

  “We wonder if you would do us a favor.”

  “If it’s at all possible, with pleasure.”

  “We have three French relégués in prison here. They claim that their companions abandoned them here and left. We think they sank their boat, but they say they don’t even know how to sail. We think they’re trying to put something over on us so that we’ll give them a new boat. They have to go, but I don’t want to have to turn them over to the first French ship that comes along.”

  “Chief, I’ll do it, but I want to speak to them first. You must realize that it’s dangerous to take on three total strangers.”

  “I understand. Willy, bring the three Frenchmen into the prison yard.”

  I wanted to see them alone, so I asked the sergeant to leave.

  “You’re relégués?”

  “No, we’re bagnards.”

  “Why did you say you were relégués?”

  “We hoped we’d get better treatment if they thought we’d committed several small crimes instead of one big one. I guess we were wrong. What are you?”

  “A bagnard.”

  “I don’t recognize you.”

  “I came on the last convoy. Look, the chief of police called me to ask if I’d take you three on our boat. There are three of us already. He said that if I wouldn’t take you, he’d have to put you on the first French boat that came along. What do you say?”

  “We have reasons for not wanting to go to sea again. Couldn’t we pretend to leave with you, then you leave us off on the end of the island and go on your way?”

  “No, I can’t do that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because that’s a stinking way to pay back their kindness.”

  “You should think of us cons before you think of the ‘roast-beefs.’”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re a con yourself.”

  “That may be, but there are a lot of different kinds of cons and maybe there’s more difference between you and me than between me and the ‘roast-beefs.’ It depends on how you look at it.”

  “So you’re going to let them turn us over to the French authorities?”

  “No. But I’m not going to let you off before we get to Curaçao either.”

  “I can’t face starting out all over again,” one of them said.

  “Listen, take a look at the boat first. Maybe you just had a bad boat.”

  “O.K. We’ll give it a try.”

  “All right. I’ll ask the chief to let you look at the boat.”

  Together with Sergeant Willy, we went over to the port. The three mecs seemed to have more confidence once they saw the boat.

  NEW DEPARTURE

  We set sail two days later, we three and the three strangers. I don’t know how they had got wind of it, but a dozen girls from the bars came to see us off, along with the Bowen family and the Salvation Army captain. As one of the girls was giving me a farewell kiss, Margaret laughed and said, “Henri, you’re a fast worker!”

  “Good-by, everybody. If we don’t see you again, remember you have a big place in our hearts. We’ll never forget you.”

  At four in the afternoon we were towed away from the quay. We were out of the port in no time and watched to the last moment the group that had come to see us off. They were now waving white handkerchiefs. The wind filled our sails, the towrope was dropped, and we breasted the first of the million waves that lay between us and our destination.

  There were two knives on board, mine and Maturette’s. The hatchet was near Clousiot and so was the machete. We were certain that none of the others was armed, but all the same we arranged things so that at least two of us would always be awake. About sunset the school ship appeared and kept us company for nearly half an hour. Then it saluted and moved off.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Leroux.”

  “Which convoy?”

  “’Twenty-seven.”
>
  “Your sentence?”

  “Twenty years.”

  “What’s yours?”

  “Kargueret, ’twenty-nine convoy. I’m a Breton.”

  “You’re a Breton and you don’t know how to sail a boat!”

  “My name is Dufils. I’m from Angers. I got life because I said something stupid in court. If it hadn’t been for that, I’d have got ten years maximum. I was in the ’twenty-nine convoy.”

  “What was it you said?”

  “Well, it was like this. I killed my wife with a flatiron. During my trial one of the jury asked me why I hit her with the iron. I don’t know why, but I said I killed her with the iron because she was a bad ironer. My lawyer said it was that stupid remark that got me my heavy sentence.”

  “Where did you escape from?”

  “Cascade—the forest camp about fifty miles from Saint-Laurent. It was easy to escape from because we had a lot of freedom. There were five of us and it was a cinch.”

  “What do you mean, five? Where are the other two?”

  There was an embarrassed silence.

  Clousiot said at last, “Look, mecs, we’re all in this together. We’ve got a right to know.”

  “I’ll tell you,” the Breton began. “Like he said, there were five of us when we left. But the two missing men—they were from Cannes—told us they were fishermen. They paid nothing toward the cavale, but they said they would make up for it by helping us sail the boat. Well, when we were under way, we saw that neither of them knew a damn thing about sailing a boat. We almost drowned twenty times. We hugged the coast, first Dutch Guiana, then British Guiana, then finally Trinidad. Between Georgetown and Trinidad I killed the one who said he could run the boat. And the mec deserved what he got—he didn’t pay his share and he lied about what a good sailor he was. The other one thought he was going to be killed, too, so in the middle of a storm he dropped the tiller and jumped overboard. We did the best we could; the boat almost sank several times, we cracked up on a rock, but somehow pulled through. I swear that’s the truth and nothing but the truth.”