Papillon (67 page)

It was raining. Each of us had a painted flour sack for a slicker.

The current was fast and full of eddies, but in spite of that we made it to the middle in less than an hour. With the help of the ebb tide we passed the beacons three hours later. I knew the sea must be near because the lights were at the mouth of the river. We hoisted sail and were out of the Kourou in a flash. The wind took us on the beam with such force that I had to let out the sail. We hit the sea with a bang, passing through the narrows like an arrow, and were soon far offshore. Twenty-five miles ahead, the lighthouse on Royale gave us our position.

Thirteen days before I had been standing on the far side of that lighthouse, on Diable. For all that our exit to the sea had gone undetected and Grande Terre was soon far behind us, it seemed to bring little joy to my Chinese buddies. Unlike me, these Celestials keep their feelings to themselves. Once we were on the open sea, Cuic-Cuic said in a mild tone of voice, “That was a good start.” Van Hue added, “Yes. We made it with little trouble.”

“Cuic-Cuic, I’m thirsty. Pour me a shot of rum.”

They served me, then had a good slug themselves.

I didn’t have a compass, but during my first
cavale
I had learned to navigate by the sun, moon, stars and wind. So, without hesitation, I took a bearing on Polaris and headed straight out to sea. The boat behaved well—it took each wave smoothly with almost no roll. The wind was strong, and by morning we were a long way from the coast and the lies du Salut. I was tempted to backtrack to Diable to get a good look at it from the sea, but it would have been taking too much of a chance.

For six days we had rough weather but no rain or storms. A strong wind kept us heading in a westerly direction. Cuic-Cuic and Hue were first-rate companions: they never complained, not about the weather, the sun, or the cold at night. The only drawback was that neither would take the tiller to give me a few hours’ rest. Three or four times a day they cooked. We had eaten all the hens and roosters. One day I said to Cuic as a joke, “When do we eat the pig?”

He almost had a fit.

“That animal is my friend. Before you kill it, you have to kill me.”

My friends were busy all the time. There was always hot tea ready, and they did everything before you had to tell them. They even gave up smoking so I could have all the tobacco.

We had now been gone seven days. I was on the point of collapse. The sun was so hot that even the Chinese were cooked like a pair of lobsters. I just had to get some sleep. I made the tiller fast and left only a small bit of sail up. The boat would go wherever the wind pushed us. I slept like the dead for four hours.

I was awakened by a sudden thump, harder than usual, that almost made me jump out of my skin. I wet my face and in the process made the pleasant discovery that I had been shaved while 1 slept. Cuic-Cuic had done it and I hadn’t felt a thing. And he had oiled my face into the bargain.

Since last night I’d been heading west by southwest, for I thought I had gone too far north. This was because, in addition to being very steady, the boat had the advantage of resisting drift. I hadn’t realized this when I made my calculations, so we got some-what off course.

Suddenly, up in the sky, I saw a dirigible, the first I’d ever seen. It didn’t seem to be coming in our direction and it was too far away to estimate its size. The reflection of the sun on the aluminum was so brilliant it hurt to look at it. Now it seemed to be changing its course and coming straight for us. It was growing bigger and bigger, and in less than twenty minutes it was right over us. Cuic and his pal were so impressed by the machine that they kept up an endless babble in Chinese.

“For Christ’s sake, talk French so I can understand you!”

“It’s an English sausage,” said Cuic.

“No, it’s not exactly a sausage. It’s a dirigible.”

Now we could make out every detail. It was losing altitude, turning and turning above us in ever tightening circles. Signal flags were let down. But since we didn’t know the first thing about flag language, we couldn’t reply. The dirigible wouldn’t give up though, and came even closer, so close we could see the people in the cabin. Then they headed straight for land, and less than an hour later a plane appeared and made several passes overhead.

The wind suddenly picked up, and the sea began to get rough. But the horizon was clear on all sides so there was no danger of rain.

“Look!” said Van Hue.

“Where?”

“Over there. That dot between us and where land should be. That black dot is a boat.”

“You sure?”

“I not only know it’s a boat, I can also tell you it’s some kind of torpedo boat.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because there’s no smoke coming from it.”

In point of fact, only an hour later it was all too clear that it was a warship and it was coming straight for us. It was getting bigger every minute, moving with extraordinary speed. If it came too close, it would be very dangerous in this heavy sea. With its wake going contrary to the waves, it could easily sink us.

It was a pocket torpedo boat. As it came nearer, we could read
Tarpon
on its side, and a British flag hung from the bow. After making a semicircle, the boat came up slowly from behind, keeping carefully abreast of us. The crew was on deck, in the blue of the British Navy.

From the bridge an officer shouted through a megaphone in English, “Stop! Stop, you!”

“Cuic, let down the sails!”

We had the mainsail, spinnaker and jib down in less than two minutes. Only the waves kept us moving now and we were starting to slip sideways. This would be dangerous if we kept it up for long, especially with these high waves. A boat without some form of propulsion—whether motor or sail—won’t respond to the tiller.

I cupped my hands and shouted, “Captain, you speak French?”

Another officer took the megaphone. “Yes, Captain, I understand French.”

“What you want us to do?”

“Bring your boat alongside.”

“No, it’s too dangerous. We’ll crack up.”

“We’re a warship on patrol. You must obey.”

“I don’t give a damn who you are. We’re not at war with anybody.”

“Aren’t you survivors of a torpedoed ship?”

“No, we’re escaped prisoners from a French
bagne
.”

“What
bagne
? What’s a
bagne
?”

“A prison, a penitentiary. We’re convicts. Hard labor.”

“Ah! Yes, now I understand. From Cayenne?”

“Yes, Cayenne.”

“Where you heading?”

“British Honduras.”

“It can’t be done. You must head south-southwest and make for Georgetown. That’s an order. You must obey it.”

“O.K.” I told Cuic to hoist sail and head out in the direction indicated.

We heard a motor behind us. It was a launch that had cast off from the bigger ship and was catching up with us. A sailor with a rifle slung over his shoulder stood in the bow. The launch came up on our starboard and literally grazed us without stopping or asking us to stop. With one leap the sailor was in our boat. Then the launch turned back and rejoined the torpedo boat.

“Good afternoon,” the sailor said in English.

He came and sat down beside me and put his hand on the tiller, pointing it a little more to the south. I watched him carefully. He was very good with the boat, no doubt about that. However, I stayed right next to him. You never knew....

“Cigarettes?”

He took out three packs of English cigarettes and gave each of us one.

“My word,” Cuic said, “they must have given him the three packs just as he leapt off. After all, you don’t go around with three packs in your pockets.”

I laughed, then turned my attention back to the Englishman, who was clearly a better sailor than I. I was free to let my mind wander. This time the
cavale
was really a success. I was free. A feeling of warmth crept through me and I realized my eyes were wet with tears.

Before the war ended, I’d have time to become established and win people’s respect, wherever I ended up. The only difficulty was that, with the war on, I might not be able to choose where I wanted to live. But that made little difference. No matter where I settled, I would win the respect and confidence of both the ordinary people and the authorities. My way of life would have to be, would be, beyond reproach.

My victory gave me such an extraordinary feeling of security that it was all I could think of. At last, Papillon, you’ve won. The nine years are behind you and you’ve won. Thank you, God. You could have done it a little sooner, but Your ways are mysterious. I’m not really complaining because it’s thanks to Your help that I’m still young, healthy and free.

My mind was roaming over the two years of French prisons and nine years of
bagne
when I felt a nudge on my arm. The sailor said, “Land.”

At four o’clock we passed a blacked-out lighthouse and entered a big river—the Demerara. The launch reappeared. The sailor turned the tiller over to me and posted himself in the bow of the boat. A heavy rope was thrown to him from the launch and he tied it to the forward bench. He lowered the sails himself and, towed very gently by the launch, we sailed twelve miles up the yellow river, the torpedo boat two hundred yards behind. There was a bend in the river and there, spread out in front of us, was a large city. “Georgetown,” announced the British sailor. There were freighters, warships and motorboats everywhere, and gun turrets bristled on either side of the water. There were whole arsenals on the navy ships, as well as on land.

We knew a war was on, yet during the years since it had started we in the
bagne
had been completely untouched by it. But Georgetown was on a 100 percent war footing. It gave me a funny feeling to be in an armed city. We drew up to a military pier and the torpedo boat came alongside. Cuic and his pig, Hue carrying a small bundle, and I, empty-handed, climbed up onto the quay.

C
AVALE
FROM
G
EORGETOWN

E
IGHT DAYS LATER, AFTER A
few formalities necessitated by the war, we were free. We went to live with three escaped French convicts who had established themselves in the Hindu quarter of Georgetown and sold fresh vegetables to American sailors in port. I did some professional tattooing on the side. After various stints as restaurant keeper, dealer in butterflies and operator of a striptease joint up in a bauxite mining town—all of which got me and my Chinese partners into trouble with the police—I decided I’d had enough of British Guiana. Cuic-Cuic and Van Hue stayed behind.

Without proper authorization—the war made this a serious offense—and naturally with no passports, five of us, all liberated or escaped cons, set out to sea in a sturdy boat and headed north. We ran into a terrible typhoon and lost everything, the top half of our mast, sail, tiller and all our supplies. All that remained were a small paddle and the clothes on our backs. We used the paddle as a rudder; then we stripped to our undershirts and, with the help of a small roll of wire that had survived the storm, we made a sail out of our pants, jackets and shirts, and attached it to what was left of the mast.

The trade winds picked up and I used them to head due south. I didn’t care where we landed, even if it meant going back to British Guiana. The sentence that awaited us there would be welcome after what we’d gone through. My comrades had done themselves proud during and after the storm—which was hardly the word for it—better cataclysm, deluge, cyclone.

We had been out six days—the last two in a dead calm—when we sighted land, or so I thought. I headed for it immediately but decided to say nothing until I was sure. Suddenly there were birds overhead; I must be right. My friends woke up at the sound of their cries. They had been lying in the bottom of the boat, stupefied by the sun and fatigue, their arms across their faces to protect them from the rays.

“Where do you think we are, Papi?” said Chapar.

“Frankly, I don’t know. If that piece of land isn’t an island, if it’s a bay, then it could be the tip of British Guiana—the part that extends to the Orinoco and divides it from Venezuela. But if there’s a big space between the land on the right and on the left, then it’s not a peninsula but Trinidad. The left side would be Venezuela; that would mean we were in the Gulf of Paria.”