Papillon (18 page)

“Do what you think best,” the Breton said.

We waited for the wind the whole of that night. Finally, at four in the morning a good breeze started up, growing stronger as the day progressed. For thirty-six hours it kept us going at a good clip, yet the waves were so small that we had smooth sailing all the way.

Gulls. First only their cries, for it was dark; then the birds themselves, wheeling over the boat. One gull perched on the mast, flew off and came back again. This went on for over three hours until day broke with a radiant sun. Nothing on the horizon to indicate land. Where on earth had the gulls come from? We spent the whole day looking. No sign of land. A full moon rose as the sun went down, so brilliant that it hurt my eyes. I had lost my dark glasses; they’d been swept overboard by that broadside wave, along with our protective caps. Then about eight in the evening the moonlight picked out a black line far away on the horizon.

“It’s got to be land!” I said.

There was general agreement that there was indeed a black line and that it must be land. For the rest of the night I kept us headed toward it. Its outline grew gradually sharper—we were getting nearer. Now, with a strong wind behind us, we rode a long, smooth wave and closed in rapidly. The black mass lay low in the water with nothing to show whether there were cliffs, rocks, or a sandy shore. The moon was about to set on the far side of the land, and that made it difficult to see. Then, at the water’s edge, I saw a row of lights which broke up as we approached. We came nearer, then nearer still, and about half a mile from shore I dropped anchor. The wind was so strong that the boat spun around in circles, heading into waves which stood it on its stern as they passed by. The constant tossing was unnerving. We had lowered the sails and folded them and might have waited in this safe though disagreeable position until daybreak, but unfortunately the anchor came loose. To steer the boat, it had to be under sail. We put up the jib and spinnaker and suddenly the anchor caught again. My companions pulled on the rope and it came away without the anchor. We had lost it. I did what I could, but the waves pushed us so near the rocks I decided to put up the mainsail and head straight for them. My maneuver succeeded so well that we found ourselves wedged between two rocks with the boat completely disabled. As the next wave rolled in, we threw ourselves into the water and rolled to shore, battered but alive. Only Clousiot with his cast got a really bad mauling. His arms, face and hands were bruised and covered with blood. As for the rest of us, a few scrapes on the knees, hands and ankles. I had a bloody ear from crashing into a rock.

The important thing was that we were alive, out of the reach of the waves and on dry land. When the sun rose, we recovered the one oilskin and I returned to the boat, which was beginning to break up. I managed to pry the compass loose from the rear bench. No sign of life anywhere. We searched the place where we had seen the lights and found a row of lanterns, placed there—as we later learned—to warn fishermen that this was a danger area. We set off inland. There was nothing but cactus, enormous cactuses and donkeys. We came to a well. We were tired for we’d taken turns, two by two, carrying Clousiot in a seat we made of our hands. The dried carcasses of donkeys and goats lay scattered around the well. It was dry, and the blades of the windmill that had worked it once now beat the air aimlessly. Not a soul about; only donkeys and goats.

We continued on until we reached a small house whose open door seemed to invite us in. We called “Hello!” No answer. A cloth bag hung from the chimneypiece by its cord. I took it down and opened it. The cord broke and I saw that it was full of Dutch florins. Bonaire, Curaçao, or Aruba? Without touching its contents, we returned the bag to its place. We found water and everybody took turns drinking from a ladle. No one in the house, no one outside. We set off again—slowly because of Clousiot. Suddenly our path was obstructed by an ancient Ford. A large fat man was at the wheel.

“Who are you? Are you French?”

“Yes, sir, we are.”

“Climb in.” We laid Clousiot across the laps of the three men in the back seat; I sat next to the driver with Maturette next to me.

“You were shipwrecked?”

“Yes.”

“Anyone drowned?”

“No.”

“Where did you come from?”

“Trinidad.”

“And before that?”

“French Guiana.”

“Bagnards
or
relégués?”

“Bagnards.”

“My name is Dr. Naal; I own this spit of land. It’s a peninsula that juts out from Curaçao. It’s called Donkey Island. The donkeys and goats feed on the cactuses. They have very long thorns. The people here call the thorns ‘the girls of Curaçao.’”

“That’s not very flattering to the real girls of Curaçao,” I said.

The man laughed noisily. Then with an asthmatic wheeze the Ford stopped dead in its tracks. I pointed to a pack of donkeys and said, “If the car has given up, we can be towed.”

“I have harness in the trunk, but the problem is to catch them and get them in it. It’s not so easy.” The fat doctor lifted the hood and discovered that a big jolt had disconnected a wire. Before getting back into the car he looked around nervously. We set off again and after driving along a series of rutted roads we came to a white barrier. Next to it stood a small white house. The doctor spoke in Dutch to a light-skinned Negro in very clean clothes who kept repeating, “Ya, master. Ya, master.” The doctor turned to us and said, “I’ve given this man orders to keep you company until I get back, and give you something to drink. Please get out of the car.” We sat on the grass in the shade. The Ford coughed on its way. It hadn’t gone fifty yards when the Negro told us in Papiamento—a dialect of the Dutch Antilles composed of English, Dutch, French and Spanish—that his boss, Dr. Naal, had gone for the police because he was scared of us and had warned him to look sharp since we were escaped thieves. So the poor fellow couldn’t do enough for us. He made us some weak coffee, but in the heat it tasted very good. We had been waiting for over an hour when a big paddy wagon drove up with six policemen dressed in German style, and behind it, an open car driven by a chauffeur in a police uniform with two men and Dr. Naal in back.

They got out of the car and the shortest of the three—he had the closely shaved head of a priest—said to us, “I am the official responsible for security on the island of Curaçao. It is therefore my responsibility to arrest you. Have you committed an offense since your arrival? If so, what was it? And which of you committed it?”

“Sir, we are escaped convicts. We’ve come from Trinidad, and it’s only a few hours since our boat smashed up on your rocks. I’m in charge of our little band and I can assure you that not one of us has committed even the smallest offense.”

The police officer turned toward the fat doctor and spoke to him in Dutch. As they were talking, a man drove up on a bicycle. He spoke loud and fast, first to Dr. Naal, then to the officer.

I asked, “Dr. Naal, why did you tell this man we were thieves?”

“Because my man told me so before I met up with you. He stood behind a cactus and watched you go into his house. He’s an employee of mine and looks after the donkeys.”

“We’re thieves because we walked into his house? That’s a silly thing to say, sir. We drank some water in his house. Is that robbery?”

“What about the bag of florins?”

“I did open the bag; I even broke the string when I opened it. But all I did was examine the money to see what country we were in. Then I replaced the money and hung the bag back where I found it, from the ledge of the chimney.”

The officer looked me in the eye, turned abruptly to the man on the bicycle and spoke to him sharply. Dr. Naal started to speak. In his dry German way the officer indicated he should stay out of it. The officer made the man on the bicycle get into his car and sit next to the chauffeur; he got in himself with two of the policemen and drove off. Naal and the third man stayed with us.

“May I explain?” Naal said. “My man told me that his money was gone. The officer interrogated him before having you searched, suspecting that he might have lied. If you are innocent, I am truly sorry, but it wasn’t my fault.”

In less than fifteen minutes the car was back and the officer said, “You were telling the truth. That man is a liar. He’ll be punished for this.” The poor bugger was loaded into the paddy wagon, the other five got in behind, and I was about to follow when the officer held me back, saying, “Get into my car and sit next to the driver.” We left ahead of the police van, and it was soon out of sight. We drove along well-surfaced roads and finally reached the town. The houses were built in the Dutch style, everything was very clean, and almost everybody seemed to be on bicycles. There were hundreds of people riding around. We entered the police station and walked through a large room where several police in white were sitting at desks, then into an air-conditioned office. It was very cool. A big, strong, fair-haired man of about forty sat in an armchair. He got to his feet and spoke to the officer in Dutch.

When the conversation was over, the officer said to us in French, “May I introduce the chief of police of Curaçao?” Then, turning to the police chief, he said, “Sir, this man is French and he is the leader of the six men we just arrested.”

“As men shipwrecked on our territory, you are welcome to Curaçao. What is your name?”

“Henri.”

“Henri, the business of the money bag must have given you a disagreeable moment. But the incident served to put you in a good light. It proved your honesty beyond the shadow of a doubt. I’m going to give you a room with a couch so that you can rest. Your case will be brought before the governor; he will decide what’s to be done. This officer and I will speak up for you.”

He held out his hand and we left. In the courtyard Dr. Naal apologized and promised to intervene on our behalf. Two hours later we were locked in a large room with a dozen beds and, in the middle, a long wooden table flanked by two benches. Through the barred window we asked a policeman to buy us tobacco, cigarette papers and matches with our Trinidad dollars. He wouldn’t take the money, saying something we couldn’t understand.

There was a long wait. “That spit-and-polish black isn’t going to do us any favors,” Clousiot said. “Where’s our tobacco?”

I started to knock on the door and it opened at the same moment. A little coolie was standing there in a gray prison uniform with a number across his chest so there’d be no mistaking his status. He said, “Money cigarettes.”

“No, tobacco, cigarette papers and matches.”

He was back in a few minutes with our order plus a big steaming pot of cocoa.

I was summoned back to the office of the chief of police during the afternoon.

“The governor has given orders that you’re to be allowed out in the prison yard. Tell your companions they’re not to try to escape or there’ll be serious consequences for all of you. As leader of the group, you can go into town for two hours every morning, from ten to twelve, and every afternoon from three to five. Have you got any money?”

“Yes. English and French.”

“A policeman in civilian clothes will accompany you wherever you want to go.”

“What are you going to do with us?”

“I think we’ll try to put you separately on oil tankers of different nationalities. Curaçao has one of the biggest refineries in the world which processes the oil from Venezuela. From twenty to twenty-five tankers arrive and leave every day of the year. That would be your best solution, for then you’d be able to enter almost any country with no problem.”

“Where do you mean? Latin America? North America? Countries under British rule?”

“No, they’re out of the question. Europe is equally impossible. But don’t worry. Trust us. We want to help set you on the way to a new life.”

“Thank you, sir.”

I reported all this faithfully to my companions.

Clousiot, the most skeptical of our band, said, “What’s your opinion, Papillon?”

“I don’t know yet. I’m afraid it’s some sort of trick to keep us quiet, to keep us from trying to escape.”

“I’m afraid you’re right.”

The Breton, however, thought the plan was great, and the
mec
of the flatiron was jubilant. “No more boats, no more adventures. We each arrive on a tanker in some country or other and disappear into the sticks with official sanction.” Leroux agreed.

“What do you think, Maturette?”

And this kid of nineteen, this child accidentally turned convict with features more delicate than a woman’s, said in his soft voice, “You really think those pigs are going to cook us up fake identity cards? I don’t. At most, they might look the other way while we sneak aboard a tanker, but that’s about it. And the only reason they’d do that is to get rid of us. At least, that’s what I think. I don’t trust them.”

I went out very little—sometimes in the morning to do a few errands. We’d now been here a week and nothing had happened. We were getting nervous. One afternoon we noticed three priests escorted by the police going from cell to cell. They spent a long time in the cell nearest ours, where there was a black who had been arrested for rape. Assuming they were coming to us next, we went into our room and sat on our beds. Sure enough, the three of them came in, along with Dr. Naal, the chief of police and a man with white-and-gold braid who looked like a naval officer.