“Papi, we think it’s almost time. It’s a long time since the ebb tide started.”
The boat was heading downstream. I felt the current with my fingers; it was moving very fast. The rain had stopped and the light of a quarter moon clearly revealed the river three hundred feet ahead with its floating burden of grass, trees and unidentifiable black shapes. I tried to make out the demarcation between river and sea. Where we were, there was no wind. Was there any in the middle of the river? Was it strong? We emerged from under the brush, the boat still attached to a big branch by a slipknot. It was only by looking at the sky that I could make out the coast, the end of the river and the beginning of the sea. We had come down much farther than we thought and it seemed to me we couldn’t be more than six miles from the mouth. We drank a good snort of rum. I felt around in the boat for where the mast should go. We lifted it and it fitted nicely through the hole in the bench into its socket. I hoisted the sail but kept it wrapped around the mast. The spinnaker and jib were ready for Maturette when we needed them. For the sail to open, I had only to let go the rope that held it to the mast. I could do that from where I was sitting. Maturette was in front with one paddle, I in the rear with another. We must work fast to get away from the bank which the current was pushing us against.
“Careful. Now let her go and God help us!”
“God help us,” Clousiot repeated.
“We are in Your hands,” Maturette said.
We cast off. Together we pulled on our paddles. I dipped and pulled, Maturette did the same. It was easy. By the time we were sixty feet from the bank, the current had taken us down three hundred. The wind hit us all at once and pushed us to the middle of the river.
“Raise the jibs and make sure they’re both tied fast!”
The wind filled them and, like a horse, the boat reared and was off. It was later than we had figured for the river was suddenly bathed in broad daylight. We could easily make out the French coast about a mile and a quarter to our right and the Dutch coast about half a mile to our left. Before us and very clear were the white caps of the breaking waves.
“Christ! We were wrong about the time,” Clousiot said. “Do you think we can make it?”
“I don’t know.”
“Look how high those waves are! Has the tide turned?”
“Impossible. I see things floating down.”
Maturette said, “We’re not going to make it. We don’t have time.”
“Shut up and hold the jibs tight. You shut up too, Clousiot.”
Pan-ingh … pan-ingh.... We were being shot at. On the second round I could fix where the shots were coming from. It wasn’t the guards. The shots were coming from the Dutch side. I put up the mainsail and it filled so fast that a little more and it would have taken my wrist with it. The boat was heeling over at a forty-five-degree angle. I took all the wind I could, which was much too easy. Pan-ingh, pan-ingh; then nothing. We were being carried nearer the French coast—that must be why the shooting had stopped.
We moved ahead with dizzying speed, going so fast that I saw ourselves driven into the middle of the estuary and smack into the French bank. We could see men running toward it. I came about gently, as gently as possible, pulling on the sheet with all my strength. The mainsail was now straight out in front of me; the jib came by itself and so did the spinnaker. The boat made a three-quarter turn. I let out the sail and we left the estuary running before the wind. Jesus! We had made it! Ten minutes later the first wave barred our passage, but we climbed over it with ease, and the shuit-schuit of the boat on the river changed to a tac-y-tac-y-tac. We went over the high waves with the agility of a boy playing leapfrog. Tac-y-tac, the boat rose and fell with no vibration, no shaking—only the tac when it hit the sea after coming off a wave.
“Hurrah! Hurrah! We made it!” Clousiot shouted at the top of his lungs.
And to help celebrate our victory over the elements, the good Lord sent us a breathtaking sunrise. The waves kept up a continuous rhythm. The farther we got out, the smoother they became. The water was very muddy. Ahead of us to the north the sea was black; later it would change to blue. I didn’t need to look at the compass: the sun was over my right shoulder. I was running before the wind in a straight line and the boat was heeling less, for I had let out the sail and it was now half full. Our great adventure was under way.
Clousiot sat up. He wanted to see what was going on. Maturette helped him sit facing me, his back against the water barrel. He rolled me a cigarette, lit it, passed it to me, and all three of us smoked it.
“Pass the rum around. Let’s drink to our victory,” Clousiot said. Maturette poured a generous ration in three metal mugs and we toasted our success. Maturette was sitting next to me on my left and we looked at each other. Their faces were bright with happiness. Mine must have been the same. Then Clousiot asked, “Captain, where are you going, please?”
“To Colombia, God willing.”
“God better be willing, for God’s sake!” Clousiot said.
The sun rose quickly and we dried out in no time. We converted our hospital smocks into Arab-style burnouses. When dampened, they were cool and stuck to the head, which prevented sunstroke. The sea was opal blue and the waves were wide and long, making sailing comfortable. The wind kept up its force and we moved away from the coast at great speed. The farther we got from the green fastness, the more mysterious it became until it was only a blur on the horizon. I had turned around to look at it when a wave caught us, reminding me of my responsibilities.
“I’m going to cook some rice,” Maturette said.
“I’ll hold the stove while you hold the pot,” said Clousiot.
The demijohn of fuel was stashed up in the bow where no one was allowed to smoke. They cooked the rice in fat and it smelled good. We ate it hot, mixed with two cans of sardines. To top it off, a good cup of coffee. “A shot of rum?” I said no. It was too hot. Clousiot kept making me cigarettes and lighting them for me. From the sun’s position, we guessed it was about ten in the morning. We’d been at sea only five hours, yet we had the impression that the water below us was very deep. The waves were flatter and we sliced through them noiselessly. It was a beautiful day.
I realized that we would have no need for the compass during the day. From time to time I would position the sun in relation to the needle and guide myself that way. But the sun’s reflection hurt my eyes. I was sorry I hadn’t thought of getting myself some dark glasses.
Suddenly Clousiot blurted out, “Man, I was lucky to meet up with you at the hospital!”
“You weren’t the only one. I’m lucky to have you along.” I thought of Dega, of Fernandez.... Had they said yes, they’d be here with us too.
“It wasn’t only me,” Clousiot said. “Without Maturette you would have had trouble getting the Arab into the room when you needed him.”
“Yes, Maturette was certainly useful. I’m glad you came; you’re a brave and clever kid.”
“Thank you,” Maturette said. “Thank you both for having confidence in me in spite of my age and the way I am. I’ll try to live up to it.”
Then I said, “And François Sierra—I wish he could have been with us. And Galgani …”
“As things turned out, Papillon, it couldn’t have been done. If Jésus had been straight with us and given us a good boat, we could have waited for them in our hiding place. Jésus could have helped them escape, we would have done the rest. At least they know you and realize that if you didn’t try, it was because it was impossible.”
“While we’re on the subject, Maturette, why were you in the maximum-security room in the hospital?”
“I didn’t know I’d been interned. I went to the doctor’s because I had a sore throat and also I wanted to take a look around. When the doctor saw me, he said, ‘It says here on your form that you’re to be interned on the islands. Why?’ ‘I don’t know why, Doctor. What does interned mean?’ ‘Never mind, it doesn’t mean anything. Go to the hospital.’ And so I ende
d up in the hospital.”
“He was doing you a favor,” Clousiot said.
“You figure out his motives. But he must be saying to himself now, ‘My little friend with the choirboy’s face wasn’t such a loser after all. He had the guts to leave en cavale.’”
We talked a lot of nonsense. I said, “Who knows, we may run into Julot. He must be a long way away, unless he’s still hiding in the bush.” Clousiot said, “When I left, I put a note under my pillow: ‘Moved, leaving no forwarding address.’” We burst out laughing.
We sailed without incident for five days. During the day we took our position from the sun. At night we used the compass. On the morning of the sixth day a brilliant sun greeted us, the sea suddenly grew calm and flying fish passed near us. I was exhausted. That night, to keep me from falling asleep, Maturette wet my face with a cloth soaked in sea water, but I fell asleep all the same. Then Clousiot burned me with a cigarette. Now, since we were in a dead calm, I decided I could really sleep. We let down the sail and the jib, leaving only the spinnaker up. I slept like a rock in the bottom of the boat, protected from the sun by the sail which was stretched above me. Maturette shook me awake. “It’s only around noon, but I’m waking you because the wind is picking up. And on the horizon where it’s coming from, everything’s black.” I got up and took the tiller. The lone spinnaker carried us rapidly over the flat sea. Behind me in the east it was black, and the wind was picking up force. The two jibs were enough to maintain speed. I rolled the sail around the mast.
“Hold tight. A storm’s coming.”
Big drops of rain began to fall. An ugly black mass was surging toward us; in less than fifteen minutes it had caught up with us. A violent wind beat down on us. As if mesmerized, the waves responded, their crests exploding with spray. The sun disappeared, it rained torrents, we couldn’t see a thing; and as the waves hit the boat, the stinging spray peppered my face. It was a hurricane, my first hurricane, with all the forces of nature unleashed: thunder, lightning, rain, waves, and the wind howling around us.
Like a piece of straw, the boat was tossed about from great heights into chasms so deep I thought we’d never climb out. And yet, in spite of the fantastic plunges, we climbed up and over each new crest. I was holding the tiller with both hands, and, thinking I should try to resist a deep swell that was on the point of breaking, I aimed the boat to cut through it. I had probably maneuvered too fast because I took in a huge amount of water. The entire boat was flooded. We must have taken in thirty inches. My nerves were on edge and, without meaning to, I courted disaster by taking the next wave broadside. The boat tipped so far over that it spilled most of the water we had taken in.
“Bravo!” Clousiot shouted. “You really know the ropes, Papillon! You made short work of emptying the boat.”
“Didn’t I, though!” I answered.
If he’d only known that my lack of experience had almost drowned us! I decided to stop fighting the waves or trying to maintain a direction; I would concentrate on keeping the boat as steady as possible. I took the waves at a slight angle, letting the boat go to the bottom of the trough and then climb up. I quickly realized that I’d made an important discovery and that 90 percent of the danger had been eliminated. The rain stopped although the wind continued to blow with fury, but I could now see clearly in front and in back. Behind it was clear, in front it was black; we were between the two extremes.
By five o’clock it was over. The sun was shining again, the wind was back to normal, the waves had calmed down. I put up the sail and we set off once more, very pleased with ourselves. What water remained in the boat we bailed out with our cooking pot. We hung the blankets to the mast, where the wind soon dried them. Then we made a meal of rice, flour, oil, some strong coffee and a good swallow of rum. The sun, about to set, spread a fiery light over the blue sea. It was beautiful: the sky a reddish brown, the sun half sunk into the sea, licking with great yellow tongues at the sky, the few white clouds and the sea itself. The waves were blue at the bottom, then green and red, pink or yellow on the crests, depending on the color of the sun’s ray that touched them.
I felt an uncommon peace and with this peace, self-confidence. I had managed things well and the brief storm had taught me a lot. All by myself I had learned how to maneuver in a rough sea. I could greet the night with serenity.
“So, Clousiot, you liked the way I emptied the boat?”
“Pal, if you hadn’t done it and a new wave had hit us broadside, we would have been finished. You’re a champ.”
“Did you learn that in the navy?” Maturette asked.
“Yes. The navy’s good for something after all.”
We must have been driven far off course. It wasn’t surprising after four hours in that wind and those waves. I had to correct it by going northwest. Night swept down on us as the sun disappeared into the sea, leaving a last few violet sparks in farewell.
We sailed for six more days without incident: only a few gusts of wind and rain that never lasted more than three hours and certainly never approached the eternity of the first storm.
It was now ten o’clock in the morning. Not a breath of wind; the sea was like glass. I slept almost four hours. When I woke up, my face was burning. The skin was gone from my lips and nose. My right hand was raw. It was the same with Maturette and Clousiot. We spread oil on our hands and faces twice a day, but it wasn’t enough: the tropical sun dried it up in no time.
From the sun’s position, it was now two in the afternoon. I had something to eat and then, since the sea was a millpond, we arranged the sail to give us some shade. Fish came alongside where Maturette had washed the dishes. I took out our machete and told Maturette to throw them a few grains of rice. The rice had got wet in the storm and had begun to ferment. The fish gathered where the rice fell and, as one of them stuck its head almost out of water, I gave it a great whack with the machete. Immediately it turned its belly in the air. That fish must have weighed twenty-five pounds. We cleaned it and cooked it in salted water, and ate it that night with tapioca flour.
We had now been at sea for eleven days. During the entire time we had seen only one boat, far off on the horizon. I was beginning to ask myself where the hell we were. That we were on the high seas was obvious, but in what relation to Trinidad or the other British islands? Speak of the devil … There straight ahead of us was a black dot that was growing bigger and bigger. Was it a small boat or a big steamer? It was a boat, but it wasn’t coming toward us. We could see it clearly now, moving across our path. Actually it was coming nearer, but at an angle. Its route would not bring it close. Since there was no wind, our sails hung limp, so they must not have seen us. Then suddenly we heard the wail of a siren, followed by three more. The boat changed its course and came straight for us.
“So long as we don’t collide,” said Clousiot.
“There’s no danger. The sea is as smooth as glass.”
It was an oil tanker. As it came nearer, we could see the crowd on the bridge. They must be wondering what these madmen were doing in their cockleshell in the middle of the ocean. They approached us cautiously and we could make out the ship’s officers, some members of the crew, then women in print dresses and men in colored shirts arriving on the bridge. Obviously they were passengers. Passengers on an oil tanker? That seemed odd. The tanker was now very close and the captain called out in English:
“Where are you from?”
“French Guiana.”
“Do you speak French?” asked a woman.
“Yes, madame.”
“What are you doing in the middle of the sea?”
“The Lord knows …”
The woman spoke to the captain and said, “The captain invites you to come aboard. He’ll pull your boat up on deck.”
“Tell him thanks, but we’re very comfortable on our boat.”
“Why don’t you want help?”
“Because we’re escaped convicts and we’re not going in your direction.”
�
�Where are you going?”
“To Martinique and beyond. We have no idea where we are. Can you tell us what direction to take for the Antilles?”
“Can you read an English nautical map?”
“Yes.”
A few moments later they let down an English map, cartons of cigarettes, some bread and a roast of lamb.
“Look at the map.” I looked, then said, “I have to make a quarter turn west for the British Antilles, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“About how many miles is it?”
“You’ll make it in two days,” the captain said.
“Good-by, and thanks for everything!”
“The captain congratulates you on your sailor’s courage!”
“Thank you again. Good-by!” And the tanker moved off gently, almost grazing us. I steered us as far away as I could to avoid the backwash. Just then a sailor threw his cap overboard—it fell right in the middle of the boat. I was wearing this cap with its gold braid and anchor when we arrived in Trinidad two days later.
TRINIDAD
Long before we could see it, a flight of birds announced our landfall. It was seven-thirty in the morning when they came wheeling over us. “We’ve made it! Mecs, we’ve made it! The first part of the cavale is over. The hardest part. Vive la liberté!” In our joy we behaved like children. Our faces were covered with the cocoa butter which the tanker people had given us to soothe our sunburn. Toward nine o’clock we sighted land. A fresh wind pushed us along at a good clip on a gently rolling sea. But not until four in the afternoon were we close enough to make out the details: clusters of white houses studded the shore of the long island and coconut trees crowned its summit. We couldn’t yet see whether it was really an island or a peninsula, or whether the houses were inhabited. It was another hour before we could distinguish people running toward the beach where we were heading. In less than twenty minutes a crowd had assembled. The little village had spilled over onto the edge of the sea to receive us. We learned later that the place was called San Fernando.
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