Papillon

by Henri Charrière

  Two Colombian thieves came to me with a proposition, and I listened carefully. It appeared that some of the policemen doubled as thieves. When they were on duty in the town, they alerted their accomplices to come and go to work.

  My visitors knew them all and explained that during the coming week it would be very likely that one of these policemen would be stationed at the door of the chapel. I should get hold of a revolver during visitors’ hours. The policeman-thief could easily be persuaded to knock on the back door of the chapel, which opened on a small guardhouse. There were never more than six men in it. They’d be taken by surprise, and with the revolver in my hand, they wouldn’t stop us from reaching the street. After that it would be a simple matter to get lost in the heavy traffic.

  I didn’t like the plan much. For me to hide a revolver, it would have to be a very small one, hardly big enough to intimidate the guards. Or one of them might have the wrong reaction and I’d be forced to kill him. So I said no.

  I wasn’t the only one tormented by a desire for action: my friends were too. Except that they had off days when they seemed all too ready to accept the arrival of the boat. From there to giving up altogether was a very short step. They even discussed what sentences we might get when we arrived at the bagne and what kind of treatment we could expect.

  “I don’t even want to listen to that crap. If you’re going to talk like that, do it somewhere else. Do it in a corner where I can’t hear you. What’s happened to your balls? Have they been cut off? If so, please tell me. Because I want you mecs to know something: when I think cavale, I think cavale for all of us. And when my brain is bursting from planning how to escape, I’m thinking for all of us.... I’ll tell you something else. When I see our time is almost up and we still haven’t got going, I’ll kill a Colombian policeman to gain some more. They won’t turn me over to the French if I’ve killed one of their own. That’ll get me extra time. And then I’ll be escaping alone, so it’ll be that much easier.”

  The Colombians had another plan in the works and this was a good one. On Sunday mornings the chapel was always full of visitors and prisoners. First there was mass, and when that was over, the prisoners with visitors stayed on in the chapel. The Colombians asked me to go to mass the following Sunday to see how things went so that I could coordinate our actions on the Sunday afterward. They suggested I be the leader of the revolt. I declined the honor—I didn’t know the men involved.

  I answered for us four Frenchmen. The Breton and the man of the flatiron wanted no part of it. No problem there: they wouldn’t go to the chapel. We did. The chapel was rectangular. At the back, the chancel; in the middle on either side, two doors that opened on the yards. The main door opened on the guardhouse. It was covered by a grill behind which stood twenty guards. Behind them was the door to the street. Since the chapel was full to bursting, the guards left the grill open and stood in close ranks during mass. Among the visitors would be two men, and their women would be carrying the weapons between their legs. They’d give them—two guns, either .38 or .45 caliber—to the men as soon as the chapel was full. The leader of the plot was to get a heavy-caliber revolver from some other woman who would then leave. When the altar boy rang the bell the second time, we were all to attack at once. I was to put a large knife to the director’s throat and say, “Give the order to let us pass or I kill you.”

  Another man was to do the same to the priest. The three others, from three different angles, were to aim their guns at the police standing at the grill of the main entrance. They were to kill the first guard who failed to drop his weapon. Those who weren’t armed would go out first. The priest and the director would serve as shields for the last ones out. If everything went as expected, all the police would have laid down their arms. Then the men with revolvers would force them into the chapel. We’d leave, closing the grill first, then the wooden door. The guardhouse would be empty because the guards were obliged to attend mass. Outside, at a distance of fifty yards, there’d be a truck with a small ladder at the back to help us climb in faster. The truck would start up only after our leader was in. He would be the last one to leave the chapel.

  I observed the mass and agreed to the plan.

  Joseph Dega did not visit me on Sunday. He was preparing a fake taxi so that we wouldn’t have to go in the truck but to a hideout instead. I was excited all week. I couldn’t wait for the action to begin. Fernando, our leader, was able to get the revolver, a .45 belonging to the Colombian Civil Guard and a fearsome weapon. Thursday, one of Joseph’s women came to see me. She was very nice. She told me the taxi would be yellow and that we couldn’t miss it. She said “Good luck” and kissed me gently on both cheeks. She seemed quite moved.

  “Enter, enter. Let this chapel be filled so that we may listen to the voice of God,” said the priest.

  Feeling very calm, I took my place. Clousiot stood close to me on one side, Maturette, his eyes glistening, on the other. Don Gregorio, the director, was right in front, sitting next to a fat woman. All of us were inconspicuously dressed in case we reached the street. The knife was open against my right forearm and held in place by a thick elastic band. It was covered by the sleeve of my khaki shirt, which was tightly buttoned at the wrist. Now it was time for the raising of the Host. Everybody bowed their heads as if they were looking for something on the floor; the altar boy gave the bell a quick shake, then let out three distinct peals. The second one was our signal. Each of us knew what to do.

  First ring, second … I threw myself on Don Gregorio, the knife against his thick, wrinkled neck. The priest cried out, “God have mercy on me, don’t kill me.” I couldn’t see the others, but I heard them order the guards to drop their guns. Everything was working fine. I took Don Gregorio by the collar of his suit and said, “Follow me. Don’t be afraid, I won’t hurt you.”

  The priest had a razor at his throat.

  Fernando said to me, “Come on, Frenchie, let’s make for the door.”

  Feeling triumphant, I was pushing my group toward the door to the street when I heard two shots at once. Fernando and one of the armed prisoners fell to the ground. I moved forward another three feet, but now the guards had picked themselves up and were barring the passage. Fortunately some women stood between us so they didn’t dare shoot. More gunfire. Our third companion collapsed after shooting wild and wounding a young girl. Don Gregorio, pale as death, said to me, “Give me that knife.”

  I handed it to him. There was no point in continuing the battle. In less than thirty seconds the situation had been reversed.

  More than a week later I learned that the revolt had failed because of a prisoner from another court who had been looking in at the mass from outside the chapel. During the first seconds of action he had alerted the guards on top of the wall. They jumped the twenty feet into the yard, took positions on either side of the chapel and shot between the bars of the side doors at the two men who were standing on a bench threatening the police. The third man was shot down a few seconds later when he happened to come within their range. What followed was a fine corrida. I stayed next to the director, who was shouting orders. Sixteen of us, we Frenchmen included, were put in a dungeon on bread and water.

  Joseph Dega visited Don Gregorio. He called me in and said that to please Joseph he was putting me and my comrades back in the yard. So, thanks to Dega, ten days after the revolt we were once again in our cage in the yard. When we’d all got together, I asked for a few minutes’ silence for Fernando and his two friends who had died in the revolt. During one of his visits Joseph told me that he had passed the hat among the pimps and had collected five thousand pesos to bring Don Gregorio around. The pimps went way up in our estimation.

  But what to do now? What new plan could we dream up? I had no intention of admitting defeat, and I wasn’t going to just sit there waiting for that boat!

  I lay down in the washroom out of reach of the broiling sun where I could examine the guards on the wall without attracting attention. During the n
ight, at intervals of ten minutes, they took turns shouting, “Guards, attention!” This was so the head guard would be certain that none of the four was asleep. If one of them failed to answer, the guard kept on shouting until there was a response.

  I thought I’d found a vital flaw in the system. At each of the four corners of the wall a can hung by a cord from the sentry box. When the guard wanted some coffee, he called out “Coffee,” and a prisoner poured some in the can. Then the guard pulled it up by the cord. Now the sentry box at the extreme right was a tower that hung out over the yard. If I could make a thick hook and attach it to a strong braided cord, it would catch on the overhang and in a few seconds I’d be over the wall and into the street. The only problem was how to neutralize the guard.

  I saw him stand up and take a few steps along the wall. He seemed affected by the heat, fighting to stay awake. That was it! He must be put to sleep! First I’d make the cord, and when I found a strong enough hook, I’d put him to sleep and try my luck. In two days I had braided a cord almost seven yards long, using all the heavy cotton shirts I could lay my hands on, especially khaki ones. The hook was relatively easy to find. I took the bracket from one of the overhangs that protected the cells from rain. Joseph Dega brought me a bottle containing a powerful sleeping draught. The directions said that not more than ten drops should be taken at one time. The bottle held about six big spoonfuls. I got the guard to accept me as his coffee boy. He’d let down the can and I’d send him up three cups at a time. Since all Colombians loved alcohol and the sleeping potion tasted a little like anise, I got hold of a bottle of anisette.

  “How would you like some coffee à la française?” I asked the guard.

  “What’s it like?”

  “It has anisette in it.”

  “I’ll try it.”

  Several of the guards had a taste of my coffee-anisette. Now when I offered them their coffee, they always said, “À la française!”

  And so I’d pour in the anisette.

  The time had come. It was a Saturday noon. The heat was unbearable. My friends realized there wouldn’t be time for two people to escape, but a Colombian with the Arab name of Ali said he’d climb up after me. I said okay. This way, at least, none of the Frenchmen would appear to be accomplices. Also, Ali would carry the cord; it would be hard for me to hide the cord and hook while I was giving the guard his coffee. We figured the stuff would knock him out in five minutes.

  It was now “minus five.”

  “How goes it?” I called up to the guard.

  “O.K.”

  “Want some coffee?”

  “Yes, à la française.”

  “Wait. I’ll get it for you.”

  I went to the “coffee boy” and said, “Two coffees.” I had already poured the whole bottle of sleeping potion into the can. If that didn’t knock him out …! At the foot of the tower I made a big show of pouring in the anisette.

  “Want it strong?”

  “Yes.”

  I poured in a little more and he pulled it up.

  Five minutes went by, then ten, fifteen, twenty. He still wasn’t asleep. Even worse, instead of sitting down, he was walking back and forth, gun in hand. Yet he had drunk the whole can. And his relief would come at one o’clock.

  I watched his movements with a feeling of desperation. He gave no sign of being drugged. Ah! He staggered a little. Then he sat down in front of the sentry box, his gun between his legs, his head on one shoulder. All of us followed his reactions like hawks.

  “Go to it,” I said to the Colombian. “Now for the cord.”

  He was about to throw it when the guard stood up, let his gun fall to the ground, stretched and started working his legs as if he were running in place. The Colombian stopped just in time. Eighteen minutes until the change of the guard. Inwardly I called on God to help. “Just once more, Lord! I beseech you, don’t let me down now!” But it was in vain that I called to this Christian God, whose ways were sometimes so mysterious, especially to me, an atheist.

  “How do you like that!” Clousiot said, coming over to me. “Why doesn’t the son of a bitch go to sleep?”

  The guard started to pick up his gun and, just as he was bending down for it, he fell in a heap as if struck by lightning. The Colombian threw the cord, but the hook wouldn’t hold and the cord fell down. He threw it a second time; it grabbed hold. He pulled on it to make sure it was firm. I checked it again and was just putting my foot against the wall to start climbing when Clousiot said:

  “Beat it! The relief is here!”

  I just had time to hide before he saw me. Moved by the instinct for self-preservation and the bond between prisoners, a dozen Colombians quickly surrounded me and drew me into their circle. We walked the length of the wall, leaving the cord hanging behind us. The relief took in the hook and the stricken guard at the same time. He ran a few yards and pushed the alarm button, convinced there had been an escape.

  They came for the sleeping guard with a stretcher. More than twenty police stood on the wall. Don Gregorio was up there too and had the cord pulled up. He had the hook in his hand. A few moments later, their guns at the ready, the police fanned into the yard. They called the roll. After each name its owner was sent to his cell. Surprise! No one was missing.

  Second check, cell by cell. No, nobody missing. At three o’clock we were allowed out in the yard. We learned that the guard was still out cold and that nothing would wake him. My Colombian accomplice was brokenhearted, as was I. He’d been so sure we’d succeed. He cursed all things American, for it turned out that the sleeping potion was American.

  “What are we going to do?”

  “Why, begin again, man!” It was all I could think of.

  He thought I meant we should put another guard to sleep. “You think these guards are so stupid another one would take his coffee à la française?”

  In spite of our sad situation, I had to laugh. “It wouldn’t surprise me, mec!”

  Our guard slept three days and four nights. When he finally woke up, he, of course, said I’d put him to sleep with my coffee à la française. Don Gregorio summoned me, and the guard and I confronted each other. The head guard raised his sword to strike me. I backed into a corner, egging him on. As the sword swung down, Don Gregorio came between us, took the blow on the shoulder and fell to the ground. The fall broke his collarbone. He let out such a yell that the head guard had to turn all his attention to him. He picked him up while Don Gregorio called for help. Civilian employees poured in from neighboring offices. Soon the head guard, two other policemen and the guard I had drugged found themselves in a pitched battle with a dozen civilians seeking to avenge their director. Several were slightly wounded. The only one who escaped unscathed was me. My case no longer mattered—only the one involving the director and the head guard.

  The director’s replacement—the director had been taken to the hospital—led me back to my yard. “We’ll see about you later, Frenchie,” he said.

  The next day the director was back with his shoulder in a cast. He asked me for a written statement against the guard. I did everything he asked and with pleasure. The business of the sleeping draught was completely forgotten. Luckily for me, they couldn’t have cared less.

  A few days later Joseph Dega offered to try to organize something from the outside. I had told him that a night break was impossible because of the lights on the walls, so he looked into the possibility of cutting the current. With the help of an electrician, he found it could be done by tripping the switch on a transformer outside the prison. I was to buy off the guard on the road side, the one in the yard and the one at the door to the chapel. It was more complicated than I expected. First I put pressure on Don Gregorio—via Joseph—to give me back ten thousand pesos under the pretext that it was for my family, not to mention “persuading” him to accept two thousand pesos to buy a present for his wife. Then I had to find out which guard was in charge of scheduling the tours of duty on the wall and buy him off. He was to
get three thousand pesos, but he wanted no part of the negotiations with the other two guards. It was up to me to find them and deal with them myself. I would then give him their names and he would schedule their watch according to my directions.

  The preparations for this cavale took over a month. At last every detail was worked out. Since we didn’t need to worry about the guard in the yard, we cut the bars with a metal saw. It had three blades. The Colombian who had made the hook was alerted. He cut his bar in installments. On the designated night, a friend of his who had been pretending to be nuts for some time was to bang away on a piece of metal while singing at the top of his voice. The Colombian knew that the guard had complied only on condition that the break be limited to two Frenchmen. If there was a third man, he’d shoot him. But he wanted to try it all the same and thought that if the three of us stuck closely together, the guard wouldn’t be able to make out in the dark whether we were two or three. Clousiot and Maturette drew lots to see who would go with me. Clousiot won.

  The first moonless night came. The sergeant and two policemen had half their money. This time I didn’t need to cut the bills in half; they were already cut. The police were to pick up the other halves at the Barrio Chino where Joseph Dega’s wife worked.

  The light went out. We went to work on the bar. It was sawed through in less than ten minutes. Wearing dark pants and shirts, we climbed out of the cell. The Colombian, naked except for a black undershirt, joined us in the passageway. I shimmied up the bars of our door, climbed around the overhang and threw the hook with its three yards of cord. I was on top of the wall in less than three minutes. I hadn’t made a sound. Flat on my stomach, I waited for Clousiot. The night was blackest black. Suddenly I saw, or imagined I saw, a hand reaching up and pulled. There was a ghastly noise. Clousiot had climbed between the wall and the overhang and had caught the belt loop of his pants on the metal. I stopped pulling. The noise stopped. I pulled again, thinking that Clousiot was unhitched. But the metallic clatter continued. I pulled until he was free; then yanked him up and over.