‘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?’
‘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