Papillon

I looked at my friends and said, ‘All aboard for British Honduras.’ It was a British possession with the Republic of Honduras on the south and Mexico on the north. Helped by Margaret and her mother we spent the afternoon working out the course. First leg, Trinidad to Curaçao, six hundred and twenty-five miles: second leg, Curaçao to some island or other on our route: third leg, British Honduras.

As you can never tell what will happen at sea, we decided that in addition to the stores the police would give us, we should have a special case of tinned things to fall back on – meat, vegetables, jam, fish, etc. Margaret told us that the Salvatori Supermarket would be delighted to make us a present of them. ‘And if they won’t,’ she said simply, ‘Mama and I will buy them for you.’

‘No, Mademoiselle.’

‘Hush, Henri.’

‘No, it’s really not possible, because we have money and it wouldn’t be right to profit by your kindness when we can perfectly well buy these stores ourselves.’

The boat was at Port of Spain, afloat in a Royal Navy dock. We left our friends, promising to see one another again before we finally sailed away. Every evening we went out punctually at eleven o’clock. Clousiot sat on a bench in the liveliest square and Maturette and I took it in turns to stay with him while the other wandered about the town. We had been here now for ten days. Thanks to the iron set in his plaster, Clousiot could walk without too much difficulty. We had learnt to get to the harbour by taking a tram. We often went in the afternoons and always at night. We were known and adopted in some of the bars down there. The police on guard saluted us and everybody knew who we were and where we came from, though there was never the slightest allusion to anything whatsoever. But we noticed that in the bars where we were known they charged us less for what we ate or drank than the sailors. It was the same with the tarts. Generally speaking, whenever they sat down at a table with sailors or officers or tourists they drank non-stop and always tried to make them spend as much as possible. In the bars where there was dancing, they would never dance with anyone unless he stood them a good many drinks first. But they all behaved quite differently with us. They would stay with us for quite a time and we had to press them before they’d drink anything at all: and then it wasn’t their notorious tiny glass, but a beer or a genuine whiskey and soda. All this pleased us very much, because it was an indirect way of saying that they knew how we were fixed and that they were on our side.

The boat had been repainted and the gunwale raised six inches. The keel had been strengthened. None of her ribs had suffered, and the boat was quite sound. The mast had been replaced by a longer but lighter spar, and the flour-sack jib and staysail by good ochre-coloured canvas. At the naval basin a captain gave me a fully-graduated compass and showed me how I could find roughly where I was by using the chart. Our course for Curaçao was marked out – west by north.

The captain introduced me to a naval officer in command of the training-ship Tarpon, and he asked me if I would be so good as to go to sea at about eight the next morning and run a little way out of the harbour. I did not understand why, but I promised to do so. I was at the basin next day at the appointed time, with Maturette. A sailor came aboard with us and I sailed out of the harbour with a fair wind. Two hours later, as we were tacking in and out of the port, a man-of-war came towards us. The officers and crew, all in white, were lined up on the deck. They went by close to us and shouted ‘Hurrah!’ They turned about and dipped their ensign twice. It was an official salute whose meaning I didn’t grasp. We went back to the naval basin, where the man-of-war was already tied up at the landing-stage. As for us, we moored alongside the quay. The sailor made signs to us to follow him; we went aboard and the captain of the ship welcomed us at the top of the gangway. The bosun’s pipe saluted our coming aboard, and when we had been introduced to the officers they led us past the cadets and petty-officers lined up and standing to attention. The captain said a few words to them in English and then they fell out. A young officer explained that the captain had just told the cadets we deserved a sailor’s respect for having made such a long voyage in that little boat; he also told them we were about to make an even longer and more dangerous trip. We thanked the officer for the honour we had been paid. He made us a present of three oilskins – they were very useful to us afterwards. They were black, and they fastened with a long zip: they had hoods.

Two days before we left, Mr. Bowen came to see us with a message from the police superintendent asking us to take three relégués with us – they had been picked up a week before. These relégués had been landed on the island and according to them their companions had gone on to Venezuela. I didn’t much care for the idea, but we had been treated too handsomely to be able to refuse to take the three men aboard. I asked to see them before giving my answer. A police-car came to fetch me. I went to see the superintendent, the high-ranking officer who had questioned us when we first came. Sergeant Willy acted as interpreter.

‘How are you?’

‘Very well, thanks. We should like you to do us a favour.’

‘With pleasure, if it’s possible.’

‘There are three French relégués in our prison. They were on the island illegally for some weeks and they claim that their friends marooned them here and then sailed away. We believe it’s a trick to get us to provide them with another boat. We have to get them off the island: it would be a pity if I were forced to hand them over to the purser of the first French ship that goes by.’

‘Well, sir, I’ll do the very best I possibly can; but I’d like to talk to them first. It’s a risky thing to take three unknown men aboard, as you will certainly understand.’

‘I understand. Willy, give orders to have the three Frenchmen brought out into the courtyard.’

I wanted to see them alone and I asked the sergeant to leave us to ourselves. ‘You’re relégués?’

‘No. We’re convicts.’

‘What did you say you were relégués for, then?’

‘We thought they’d rather have a man who’d done small crimes rather than big ones. We got it wrong: we see that now. And what about you? What are you?’

‘Convict.’

‘Don’t know you.’

‘I came on the last convoy. When did you?’

‘The 1929 shipment.’

‘Me on the ’27,’ said the third man.

‘Listen: the superintendent sent for me to ask me to take you aboard – there are three of us already. He said that if I won’t and that as there’s not one of you who knows how to handle a boat, he’ll be forced to put you aboard the first French ship that goes by. What have you got to say about it?’

‘For reasons of our own we don’t want to take to the sea again. We could pretend to leave with you and then you could drop us at the end of the island and carry on with your own break.’

‘I can’t do that.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because they’ve been good to us here and I’m not going to pay them back with a kick in the teeth.’

‘Listen, brother, it seems to me you ought to put a convict before a rosbif.’

‘Why?’

‘Because you’re a convict yourself.’

‘Yes. But there are so many different kinds of convict that maybe there’s more difference between you and me than there is between me and the rosbifs. It all depends on where you sit.’

‘So you’re going to let us be handed over to the French authorities?’

‘No. But I’m not going to put you ashore before Curaçao, either.’

‘I don’t think I’ve the heart to begin all over again,’ said one of them.

‘Listen, have a look at the boat first. Perhaps the one you came in was no good.’

‘Right. Let’s have a go,’ said the two others.

‘OK. I’ll ask the superintendent to let you come and have a look at the boat.’

Together with Sergeant Willy we all went down to the harbour. The three guys seemed more confident once they had seen the boat.

Setting off Again

Two days later we and the three strangers left Trinidad. I can’t tell how they knew about it, but a dozen girls from the bars came down to see us go, as well as the Bowens and the Salvation Army captain. When one of the girls kissed me, Margaret laughed, and said, ‘Why, Henri, engaged so soon? You are a quick worker.’

‘Au revoir, everybody! No: good-bye! But just let me say what a great place you have in our hearts – nothing’ll ever change that.’

And at four in the afternoon we set out, towed by a tug. We were soon out of harbour, but we did not leave without wiping away a tear and gazing until the last moment at the people who had come to say good-bye and who were waving their white handkerchiefs. The moment the tug cast us off we set all our sails and headed into the first of the countless waves that we were to cross before we reached the end of our voyage.

There were two knives aboard: I wore one and Maturette the other. The axe was next to Clousiot, and so was the jungle-knife. We were certain that none of the others had any weapon. We arranged it so that only one of us should ever be asleep during the passage. Towards sunset the training-ship came and sailed along with us for half an hour. Then she dipped her ensign and parted company.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Leblond.’

‘Which convoy?’

‘’27.’

‘What sentence?’