Tempers were constantly ragged. No one had a peaceful tongue in their heads and scuffles seemed to break out with alarming regularity.
Mohand was aware of Zaydane’s eyes boring into him more and more. Perhaps now that they were coming to the end of the journey, he might take the chance to settle matters. It seemed that every time he turned round, Zaydane was standing there watching him, waiting for an excuse to strike.
One evening, Arab took Mohand to one side and handed him a small implement.
‘What is this?’ Mohand asked, looking down at his hand. Arab had given him a spoon, but the handle had been sharpened until it had an edge like a blade.
‘I can’t fight this one for you, cousin. It’s either you or him,’ Arab said. ‘If I…’
‘I know,’ Mohand interrupted, ‘I’d be seen as an easy target for…’ he tailed off. Mohand felt a charge of adrenalin. Fresh sweat burst out on his forehead. His heart beat hard against the cage of his ribs. He recognised the truth in what Arab was saying, but did he have it in himself to kill a man?
‘I can’t do this…’ He made to hand the blade back to Arab.
‘You have no choice, Mohand,’ Arab answered, moving closer, his voice deep and harsh. ‘He has some size on you, but you will be faster. He’s been ill during the voyage, while you have been eating well. If the fight lasts more than a couple of minutes, you’ll have an advantage.’
‘I… I…’ Mohand couldn’t believe that Arab was discussing a fight to the death as casually as he might once have discussed the forthcoming harvest season. He slipped his blade into a pocket and hoped fervently that the moment might never come. With equal fervour he prayed that if it did, he would have it within himself to do what was required.
* * *
The days became even warmer. The water became contaminated. The captain had Mohand pour rum into it so that it was drinkable. As a result the men suffered from a light but continuous inebriation.
Half-drunk, covered in sweat, feeling like they were breathing through a wet sponge, the only release the men got was the twice-daily shower with the hose. Fights became more regular than at any time since the voyage began.
Just before dark one evening a loud cry came from the cage opposite to Mohand. Then there was a series of yells. Mohand was one of the first to the bars so see what was going on. Two Arabs were kicking and punching at each other. The other men in the cells began to cheer them on.
Something tugged at Mohand’s mind. A sudden sense of danger. He turned and moved to the side quickly. His movement took someone by surprise and he saw a man fall at his feet.
Zaydane. He had taken advantage of the commotion elsewhere. Clearly he was thinking that while the guards were occupied with the other fight, he could move in.
Mohand kicked out, aiming for the head. Zaydane twisted out of the way and moved back onto his feet.
‘Now you pay the price, Saoudi.’ Zaydane’s face was twisted with hate. He held something shiny in his left hand. A small blade.
As the two men circled each other the other prisoners lined up against the bars of the cage so as to obscure the vision of the guards. No one cheered this fight on. There was a sense that something more serious was at play here.
Zaydane lashed out. Mohand slipped to the side. Not fast enough. He felt something score across his arm.
Zaydane’s smile at the sight of his blood was something he was sure he would never forget.
He reached into his pocket and pulled out his own blade, sending a prayer of thanks to Allah that Arab had the foresight to prepare him. Zaydane’s eyes widened when he saw the knife. He didn’t expect this. Taking advantage of the other man’s momentary surprise, Mohand leaped forward. He slashed down with the knife and jumped back out of range. Now blood had been spilled on both sides.
The cage was eerily quiet now, save for his and his opponent’s breathing. It was only a matter of time before the guards noticed something was going on. Mohand surprised himself by realising that he didn’t want the fight to end. He was going to kill this bastard or die trying.
Zaydane made to move to one side. Mohand tried to counter it, but instead felt Zaydane’s fist collide with his jaw.
He danced out of the older man’s range, waiting for the blurring to clear, but Zaydane sensed the advantage and moved in, his weapon a cold sparkle in his fist. The blade was a lightning strike at his face. Mohand moved his arm up in time as defence. A hot tear in his forearm. A trickle of blood.
For a second the two men were closer than they’d been at any part of the fight so far. Ignoring the pain, Mohand butted Zaydane on the nose. Even before he had begun to move, his mind had sent the message to strike at this old wound. Zaydane staggered back, holding his nose and howling with fury. Mohand moved in.
He dropped his knife.
Everyone gasped.
But Mohand knew what he was doing. He didn’t need a weapon. He was better than that. He jumped forward, grabbed Zaydane’s head, butted him again. Kneed him in the gut.
The next few moments were a blur. He was all movement and power, fury and speed, knees and fists. Zaydane was on the floor. At last Mohand had a focus for all the anger that had been building up in him since the murder.
Mohand held Zaydane by each ear and slammed his head against the floor. He leaned forward and screamed something in the man’s face. He wanted to tear his heart out. He wanted to break every bone in this man’s body. His teeth clamped on to the man’s ear. He didn’t know what he was doing. He couldn’t stop what he was doing. He closed his jaws tight and felt something like a piece of rubber fill his mouth, along with a taste of iron.
Rough hands were pulling at him.
Voices reached his ear.
Something clubbed him on the back of the head.
* * *
When Mohand came to, he was curled into a ball. His head hurt. His arms hurt. The big toe on his right foot felt like it was broken. His skin was burning. He felt like he’d been thrown against the sun. He’d never been hotter. He reached out and touched a burning metal plate.
He was in the hot room.
The fight came back to him in a rush. What had he done?
He remembered the taste in his mouth. He gagged. He was worse than an animal. Shame burned through him warmer than any furnace. This was what he was capable of? Just as well he was being taken to prison. Someone who could act like that had no place in society. Then the voice of sanity suggested he had no choice. He had to fight, and he had to fight with everything he could. Or die.
Until that moment he had no idea that the will to go on living burned so fiercely in him.
He had been tested. The other men would see this and realise that he was not a man to argue with.
All the same, the fierceness of his attack took him by surprise. To own such animal savagery scared him. Just what else was he capable of?
He faded out of consciousness again and, in a fevered dream, he felt the cool hand of Hana Addidi holding a wet rag and swabbing it on his forehead. She was often there with soothing words and a kind heart when he was a child.
Cool water splashed over him and he felt coarse hands pull him from the cell. With a guard on either side he was taken to the captain. His friend Roger Hirault stood by his side.
‘I’m disappointed in you, Mohand,’ the captain said. His eyes sparkled beneath the thick white bristle of his eyebrows. ‘You should have used the knife and killed the bastard.’
Mohand looked up from his examination of the floor. He had been sure he was about to earn more punishment. It was not unusual for men caught fighting to be given a whipping.
‘I… eh…’
‘We know everything. Normally after a fight no one talks. Men who were close enough to be splattered in the blood of the dead often see nothing. Not wanting to be a grass often strikes men with blindness. But you and Zaydane?’ The captain shook his head in disbelief. ‘Men have been queuing up to tell us what happened.’
‘We know he’s
been waiting to attack you since you arrived on board,’ Roger joined in. ‘And we’ve seen how you are with the other men. And how you work, Mohand. We know you are not the kind of man to start a fight.’
While he spoke, Mohand looked from the captain to Roger and then to the table in front of them. A jug of water sat in the middle.
‘Zaydane is a killer, Mohand,’ the captain said as he poured a glass. ‘You should have finished him off. That one won’t forget.’
For the moment Mohand was uncaring of any future threat Zaydane might pose. He worked his jaw and carefully opened his mouth. His lips were almost glued together. It felt like it was filled with sand. ‘Sip it slowly,’ said Roger, handing him the glass. ‘And have a seat before you fall down.’
The room was silent apart from the glug of water down Mohand’s throat.
‘Now we’re going to have to punish you,’ said the captain, leaning forward and pulling the glass from his hand. ‘We’ll just give you two glasses of water when you really should have three.’ His smile was broad. ‘But when you go back to your cage, you’ve been treated terribly, haven’t you?’
Mohand nodded.
‘After all,’ said the captain, ‘we have a reputation to uphold.’
THREE
Land Ahead
Convicts crowded round the porthole, each desperate for a glimpse of what was to be their new home. After weeks at sea, land was at last visible and it was a land unlike any Mohand had seen so far in his short existence. He was used to the baked earth of the North African scrubland, or ranks upon ranks of olive or pine trees.
His new home was a riot of green. A solid bank of vegetation stopped short at the river’s edge like an arrested gallop. Mangroves broke the wall of green, stretching into the water; palm trees and coconut trees stretched into the sky, away from the tall ferns that feathered the base of their trunks.
Parrots squawked as if drawing attention to their bright colours. They swooped close to the boat and even more quickly wheeled away as if frightened off by the smell of the confined humans.
Canoes filled with naked savages paddled alongside the ship. Men called down to the Indians and were rewarded with waves and smiles.
The three cousins stood shoulder to shoulder, looking with awe at their new environment.
‘Look at the monkeys in those trees,’ said Arab.
‘And the colours of those birds,’ exclaimed Mohand. Ali nodded and coughed. Mohand turned to assess his state of health. In only the last few days Ali had been taken ill with some form of fever, brought on no doubt by the insanitary conditions on board. He had appealed to Roger to have Ali taken on deck, where he might get some release from the foul smell of the cages. But Roger had shrugged helplessly. Now that they were closer to their destination, security was being tightened. This part of the voyage was apparently a danger point. Desperate men were known to have leapt overboard in past voyages, aiming to swim to shore.
Perhaps, prayed Mohand, when they get on to dry land that will be enough for Ali to recuperate.
As for Zaydane, there had been no sign of him since the fight. Roger whispered that he was still alive, but being kept in a solitary cell.
Hassan, Zaydane’s mome, had quickly been picked up by another older man, and at every opportunity shot Mohand looks of utter hate. Mohand could only shrug. His actions had given Hassan the opportunity to get clear of just that kind of situation. He couldn’t understand it. Perhaps Hassan was terrified and felt he needed the protection that a man like Zaydane could offer. Whatever it was, it was no longer his problem.
Ali’s shoulders shook with barely suppressed coughs. His face was drawn and his skin an unearthly colour.
Dry land. Once they were on dry land his cousin would recover, he fervently hoped.
They were heading down the Maroni river to the administrative centre of the St Laurent penal colony, and as the ship was guided down the river Mohand drank in the view until the call came:
‘Dress for landing.’
They had been all but naked for the last few weeks, but every man rushed to put on the uniforms they had been given by the authorities. They still had some sense of pride. There were crowds of people waiting to see them. It wouldn’t do to walk into their new world, no matter how harsh it might be, wearing nothing but a rag of a towel around their waists.
Eventually the ship settled by the wharf. The whistle blew and they were all ushered out of the cages on to the deck. From there they were marched down the gangway on to the pier.
Although they were uncertain about the next phase in their lives, each man was relieved to be on land. The scent of the jungle replaced the stench of their fellow man and, with relief, they were each able to breathe deep the fresh tropical air.
Looking into the crowd that waited for them, it felt to Mohand that the entire town had come to welcome them. He was not wrong. Twice yearly this procession of the newly damned was the only entertainment the locals received.
The prisoners stood baking under the midday sun in the woollen suits they had been given before they departed Algeria. A cloth that was of course unsuited to the tropical sun.
The count was made – allowances given for the men who had perished during the journey – and the seven hundred remaining convicts were marched the length of the pier into the bagne.
As he walked, Mohand had Jean at his side explaining the sights he was faced with.
A group of black women sang and danced for them, shouted words of encouragement and laughed among themselves.
‘Prostitutes, mainly,’ explained Jean. ‘There are also many Chinese people in this area. As soon as you can, get to know some of them. Very useful.’ Mysteriously, he didn’t explain exactly why they were useful, so Mohand determined he would find out at the earliest opportunity.
Mohand also noticed a good number of white men in the crowd. To a man, they were gaunt of face, barefoot and dressed in rags. Some wore frayed hats as shelter against the fierce sun.
‘Who are they?’ Mohand asked Jean.
‘Libérés,’ Jean answered with a glum expression. ‘Men who have served their sentences and are now free to live in the colony itself. The irony is that life is so hard as a libéré they are often better off as a convict.’
Mohand could only stare open-mouthed at this explanation. How on earth could a man be better off as a convict?
‘Such is the pain of doublage,’ Jean offered by way of explanation. None the wiser, Mohand turned back to examine the poverty-stricken so-called freemen of this part of French Guiana and shuddered at the misery that haunted each and every face.
After they had marched along the pier they were turned to the left to face a huge wall. In the middle of the wall was a large, heavily guarded gate.
‘Here we are,’ said Jean. ‘Le bagne.’
Above the gate in huge lettering a sign read, ‘Camp De La Transportation’.
* * *
The convicts were guided through the gates and then into the main square. A group of other convicts approached them, carrying piles of clothing. They were ordered to strip off their old uniforms and put on the new ones of red and white stripes, which was made from a much thinner material.
Under the scorching heat, the men were spread out symmetrically across the whole courtyard. In front of them was a small, wooden platform bearing the tall, thin frame of the guillotine.
Mohand studied it and shuddered. There was no mistaking the simple menace of this tool. He then looked at the buildings around him. On each side of the courtyard were what appeared to be offices. They were too open to be useful as prison cells. Through an arch at the far side he could see other buildings of cream-coloured brick with red-tiled roofs.
Suddenly the guards shouted, ‘Attention!’ as three men walked through the arches dressed in white. The convicts stood like trained soldiers and watched the three men heading towards them. The man in the middle carried himself with authority, head high and arms swinging as if he was on parade. He walke
d up the stairs onto the wooden platform and stood beside the guillotine.
With narrowed eyes and a stern line to his mouth, he surveyed the men before him.
‘I am the director of the penal administration here in French Guiana.’ His voice carried loud and clear to the men before him. ‘You have arrived at this very spot to pay for your crimes against France. You are all criminals and are not deserving of any mercy.’ He paused and looked along the line of men as if judging their response. ‘For those who behave, life will not be made unbearable. But for those who cause trouble we have excellent methods of punishment at our disposal.’ As he said this, he placed one hand on the upright of the guillotine, and his message was not lost to any man before him. Even if you did not know what the contraption was, there was something about it that conveyed its own message of dread. ‘I know that many of you will be planning to escape at the first opportunity – forget it. You may be given a great deal of freedom in the camps and in the town, but don’t ever forget that the real guards here in French Guiana are the jungle and the sea.
‘First attempt at escape adds two years in solitary confinement to your existing sentence. Second attempt adds five more years. Of course, more serious offences are dealt with in this fashion,’ he said, eyeing the guillotine.
‘Make the best of what we offer you and you will suffer less than you deserve.’ Mohand read the tone of the man’s voice and the threat that it promised. He felt himself shiver despite the heat.
FOUR
The Blockhaus
‘Into the house, all of you. Go on! Get a move on!’ guards shouted at the men, who were momentarily stunned by the power of that hanging blade.
The Guillotine Choice Page 16