Papillon

‘Twenty years.’

‘What about you?’

‘Kargueret, 1929 convoy: fifteen years. I’m a Breton.’

‘You’re a Breton and you can’t sail a boat?’

‘That’s right.’

The third said, ‘My name’s Dufils and I come from Angers. I got life for a silly crack I made in court: otherwise it’d have been ten years at the outside. 1929 convoy.’

‘What was the crack?’

‘Well, I’d killed my wife with a flat-iron, you see. During the trial a juryman asked me why the flat-iron. I don’t know what possessed me but I told him I’d used a flat-iron on account of she needed smoothing out. According to my lawyer it was that bloody-fool remark that made them give me such a dose.’

‘Where did you all make your break from?’

‘A logging camp they call Cascade, fifty miles from Saint-Laurent. It wasn’t hard to get out – they give you a lot of freedom there. We just walked off, the five of us – nothing simpler.’

‘How come, five? Where are the other two?’

An awkward silence. Clousiot said, ‘Man, there are only straight guys here, and since we’re together we’ve got to know. Tell.’

‘I’ll tell you, then,’ said the Breton. ‘We were five when we left, all right: but the two missing guys who aren’t here now were from Cannes and they’d told us they were fishermen back at home. They paid nothing for the break because they said their work in the boat would be worth more than any money. Well, on the way we saw that neither the one nor the other knew the first thing about the sea. We were on the edge of drowning twenty times. We went creeping along the shore – first the coast of Dutch Guiana, then British Guiana, and then finally Trinidad. Between Georgetown and Trinidad I killed the one who said he would act as leader of the break. The guy had it coming to him, because to get off not paying he had lied to everyone about what a seaman he was. The other thought he was going to be killed too and he threw himself into the sea during a squall, letting go the tiller. We managed as best we could. We let the boat fill with water a good many times and in the end we smashed against a rock – it was a miracle we got out alive. I give you my word of honour everything I’ve said is the exact truth.’

‘It’s true,’ said the two others. ‘That’s just how it happened, and we all three of us agreed about killing the guy. What do you say about it, Papillon?’

‘I’m in no position to judge.’

‘But what would you have done in our place?’ insisted the Breton.

‘I’d have to think it over. You want to live through things like that to know what’s right and what’s not: otherwise you just can’t tell where the truth lies.’

Clousiot said, ‘I’d have killed him, all right. That lie might have caused the death of everyone aboard.’

‘OK. Let’s scrub it. But I’ve got a hunch you were scared through and through. You’re still scared, and you’re only at sea because there’s no choice. Is that right?’

‘Bleeding right,’ they answered all together.

‘Well then, there’s not got to be any panic here, whatever happens. Whatever happens nobody’s got to show he’s afraid. If anyone’s scared, just let him keep his trap shut. This is a good boat: it’s proved that. We’re heavier laden than we were, but then she’s been raised six inches all round. That more than compensates.’

We smoked; we drank coffee. We had had a good meal before leaving and we decided not to have another before next morning.

This was 9 December 1933, forty-two days since the break had started in the high security ward of the hospital at Saint-Laurent. It was Clousiot, the company’s accountant, who told us that. I had three very valuable things that we lacked when we set out – a waterproof steel watch bought in Trinidad, a real good compass in gimbals, and a pair of celluloid sunglasses. Clousiot and Maturette each had a cap.

Three days passed with nothing much happening, apart from our twice meeting with schools of dolphins. They made our blood run cold, because one band of eight started playing with the boat. First they’d run under it longways and come up just in front – sometimes one of them would touch us. But what really made us quake was the next caper. Three dolphins in a triangle, one in front and then two abreast, would race straight for our bows, tearing through the water. When they were within a hair’s breadth of us they would dive and then come up on the right and the left of the boat. Although we had a good breeze and we were running right before it they went still faster than we did. The game lasted for hours: it was ghastly. The slightest mistake on their part and they would have tipped us over. The three newcomers said nothing, but you should have seen their miserable faces!

In the middle of the night of the fourth day a perfectly horrible storm broke out. It really was something quite terrifying. The worst part of it was that the waves didn’t follow one another in the same direction. As often as not they collided and broke against one another. Some were long and deep, others choppy – there was no understanding it. Nobody uttered a word except for Clousiot; from time to time he called out, ‘Go it, mate! You’ll do this one, just like the rest.’ Or ‘Keep an eye out for the one behind!’

A very curious thing was that sometimes they would come three-quarters on, roaring and capped with foam. Fine: I’d have plenty of time to judge their speed and work out the right angle to take them. Then suddenly, unreasonably, there’d be one roaring right up over the boat’s stern, immediately behind. Many a time they broke over my shoulders and then of course a good deal came into the boat. The five men baled non-stop with tins and saucepans. Still, I never filled her more than a quarter full and so we were never in danger of sinking. This party lasted a good half of the night, close on seven hours. Because of the rain we never saw the sun at all until eight.

We were all of us, including me, heartily glad to see this sun shining away with all its might after the storm. Before anything else, coffee. Scalding hot coffee with Nestlé’s milk and ship’s biscuits: they were as hard as iron, but once they were chunked in coffee they were wonderful. The night’s struggle against the storm had worn me right out, and although there was still a strong wind and a heavy, uneven sea, I asked Maturette to take over for a while. I just had to sleep. I hadn’t been lying down ten minutes before Maturette took a wave the wrong way and the boat was three quarters swamped. Every thing was afloat – tins, stove, blankets, the lot. I reached the tiller with the water up to my waist and I just had time to avoid a breaking wave coming right down upon us. With a heave of the tiller I put us stern-on: the sea did not come in but thrust us forward for a good ten yards.

Everyone baled. With the big saucepan Maturette flung out three gallons at a time. No one bothered about saving anything at all – there was only one idea and that was to empty the boat of all this water that was making her so heavy that she could not struggle against the sea. I must admit the three newcomers behaved well; and when the Breton’s tin was swept away, alone he took the quick decision to ease the boat by letting go the water-cask, which he heaved overboard. Two hours later everything was dry, but we had lost our blankets, primus, charcoal stove and charcoal, the wicker bottle of paraffin and the water-cask, the last on purpose.

At midday I went to put on another pair of trousers, and it was then that I noticed that my little suitcase had gone overboard too, together with two of the three oilskins. Right at the bottom of the boat we found two bottles of rum. All the tobacco was either gone or soaked: the leaves and their water-tight tin had disappeared. I said, ‘Brothers, let’s have a good solid tot of rum to begin with, and then open the reserves and see what we can reckon on. Here’s fruit juice: good. We’ll ration ourselves for what we can drink. Here are some tins of biscuits: let’s empty one and make a stove of it. We’ll stow the other tins in the bottom of the boat and make a fire with the wood of the box. A little while ago we were all pretty scared, but the danger’s over now: we’ve just got to get over it and not let the others down. From this moment on, no one must say “I’m thirsty”, no one must say “I’m hungry”; and no one must say “I feel like a smoke” OK?’

‘OK, Papi.’

Everyone behaved well and providentially the wind dropped so that we could make a soup with bully-beef for a basis. A mess tin full of this with ship’s biscuits soaked in it gave us a comfortable lining, quite enough until tomorrow. We brewed a very little green tea for each man. And in an unbroken box we found a carton of cigarettes: they were little packets of eight, and there were twenty-four of them. The other five decided that I alone should smoke, to help me keep awake; and so there should be no ill-feeling, Clousiot refused to light them for me, but he did pass me the match. What with this good understanding aboard, nothing unpleasant happened at any time.

Now it was six days since we had sailed, and I had not yet been able to sleep. But this afternoon I did sleep, the sea being as smooth as glass: I slept, flat out, for nearly five hours. It was ten in the evening when I woke. A flat calm still. They had had a meal without me and I found a very well cooked kind of polenta made of maize flour – tinned, of course – and I ate it with a few smoked sausages. It was delicious. The tea was almost cold, but that didn’t matter in the least. I smoked, waiting for the wind to make up its mind to blow.

The night was wonderfully starlit. The pole star shone with all its full brilliance and only the Southern Cross outdid it in splendour. The Great and the Little Bear were particularly clear. Not a cloud, and already the full moon was well up in the starry sky. The Breton was shivering. He had lost his jacket and he was down to his shirt. I lent him the oilskin.

We began the seventh day. ‘Mates, we can’t be very far from Curaçao. I have a hunch I made a little too much northing, so now I’ll steer due west, because we mustn’t miss the Dutch West Indies. That would be serious, now we’ve no fresh water left and all the food’s gone except for the reserve.’

‘We leave it to you, Papillon,’ said the Breton.

‘Yes, we leave it to you,’ said all the others together. ‘You do what you think right.’

‘Thanks.’

It seemed to me that what I had said was best. All night long the wind had failed us and it was only about four in the morning that a breeze set us moving again. This breeze strengthened during the forenoon, and for thirty-six hours it blew strong enough to carry us along at a fair rate, but the waves were so gentle we never thumped at all.

Curaçao

Gulls. First their cries, because it was still dark, and then the birds themselves, wheeling above the boat. One settled on the mast, lifted off, then settled again. All this flying around lasted three hours and more until the dawn came up, with a brilliant sun. Nothing on the horizon showed any hint of land. Where the hell did all these gulls and sea-birds come from? Our eyes searched throughout the day, and searched in vain. Not the least sign of land anywhere near. The full moon rose just as the sun was setting; and this tropical moon was so strong that its glare hurt my eyes. I no longer had my dark glasses – they had gone with that diabolical old wave, as well as all our caps. At about eight o’clock, very far away in this lunar daylight, we saw a dark line on the horizon.

‘That’s land all right,’ said I, the first of us all to say it.

‘Yes, so it is.’

In short, everybody agreed that they could see a dark line that must be land of some sort. All through the rest of the night I kept my bows pointed towards this shadow, which grew clearer and clearer. We were getting there. No clouds, a strong wind and tall but regular waves, and we were running in as fast as we could go. The dark mass did not rise high over the water, and there was no way of telling whether the coast was cliffs, rocks or beach. The moon was setting on the far side of the land, and it cast a shadow that prevented me from seeing anything except a line of lights at sea-level, continuous at first and then broken. I came closer and closer, and then, about half a mile from the shore, I dropped anchor. The wind was strong, the boat swung round and faced the waves, which it took head-on every time. It tossed us around a great deal and indeed it was very uncomfortable. The sails were lowered and furled, of course. We might have waited until daylight in this unpleasant but safe position, but unhappily the anchor suddenly lost its hold. To steer a boat, it has to be moving: otherwise the rudder has no bite. We hoisted the jib and stay-sail, but then a strange thing happened – the anchor would not get a grip again. The others hauled the rope aboard: it came in without any anchor. We had lost it. In spite of everything I could do the waves kept heaving us in towards the rocks of this land in such a dangerous way that I decided to hoist the mainsail and run in on purpose – run in fast. This I carried out so successfully that there we were, wedged between two rocks, with the boat absolutely shattered. No one bawled out in panic, but when the next wave came rolling in we all plunged into it and ended up on shore, battered, tumbled, soaked, but alive. Only Clousiot, with his plastered leg, had a worse time than the rest of us. His arm, face and hands were badly scraped. We others had a few bangs on the knees, hands and ankles. My ear had come up against a rock a little too hard, and it was dripping with blood.

Still, there we were, alive on dry land, out of the reach of the waves. When day broke we picked up the oilskin and I turned the boat over – it was beginning to go to pieces. I managed to wrench the compass from its place in the stern-sheets. There was no one where we had been cast up, nor anywhere around. We looked at the line of lights, and later we learned that they were there to warn fishermen that the place was dangerous. We walked away, going inland; and we saw nothing, only cactuses, huge cactuses, and donkeys. We reached a well, tired out, for we had had to carry Clousiot, taking turns with two of us making a kind of chair with joined hands. Round the well there were the dried carcasses of goats and asses. The well was empty, and the windmill that had once worked it was now turning idly, bringing nothing up. Not a soul; only these goats and donkeys.

We went on to a little house whose open doors invited us to walk in. We called out ‘Haloo! Haloo!’ Nobody. On the chimney-piece a canvas bag with its neck tied by a string; I took it and opened it. As I opened it the string broke – it was full of florins, the Dutch currency. So we were on Dutch territory: Bonaire, Curaçao or Aruba. We put the bag back without touching anything; we found water and each drank in turn out of a ladle. No one in the house, no one anywhere near. We left, and we were going along very slowly, because of Clousiot, when an old Ford blocked our path.

‘Are you Frenchmen?’

‘Yes, Monsieur.’

‘Get into the car, will you?’ Three got in behind and we settled Clousiot on their knees; I sat next to the driver and Maturette next to me.

‘You’ve been wrecked?’

‘Yes.’