Papillon

by Henri Charrière

  “A revolt? What do you mean?” I made it very clear that I knew nothing.

  Jean Carbonieri had not gone to work that morning. He now came up to me, white as death for all that his face was deeply sun-burned. In a low voice he said, “It’s the revolt, Papi.”

  I said coldly, “What revolt? I guess I’m not up to date.”

  The carbine shots continued.

  Pierrot le Fou came running into the room. “It’s a revolt, but I think it fizzled. What a bunch of idiots! Papillon, get your knife ready. We might as well kill as many guards as we can before they finish us off!”

  “Right! Let’s kill as many as we can,” Carbonieri agreed. Chissilia pulled out a razor. Everybody armed himself with something.

  “Don’t be a bunch of dopes,” I said. “How many of us are there?”

  “Nine.”

  “Seven of you put away your weapons. I’ll kill the first man who threatens a guard. I’m not about to be shot down like a rabbit. You in on this?”

  “No.”

  “You?”

  “No, me neither.”

  “And you?”

  “Didn’t know a thing about it.”

  “O.K. All of us here are from the underworld. Nobody knew anything about this amateurs’ revolt. Understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “The minute anybody lets on he knows something, he’s dead. So anyone who’s fool enough to talk gains nothing. Throw your weapons in the pails. The guards’ll be here soon.”

  “What if it’s the cons who won?”

  “If it’s the cons, let’s wait and see if they use their victory to make a cavale. The way I see it, the price is too high. How about you?”

  They all agreed, including Jean Carbonieri.

  I didn’t let on about what I already knew—that, since the shooting had stopped, the cons must have lost. If they’d won, the massacre would still be going on.

  The guards swept past like a bunch of wild beasts, prodding the men who worked in the rock gang with rifle butts, sticks and feet. They herded them into the building next door, and soon guitars, mandolins, chess games, checkers, lamps, benches, bottles of oil, sugar, coffee, white uniforms, everything was trampled on, destroyed and thrown out the door. The guards took it out on everything that wasn’t regulation.

  Two revolver shots rang out.

  There were eight buildings in the camp. In every one it was the same story. Guards crossed in front of us and entered the building to our right, the seventh case. We were the last one. The nine of us were each in our own place. None of the men who had been working outside had come back yet. We stood frozen to the spot. Nobody spoke. My throat was dry. All I could think was, Just so long as some bastard doesn’t take advantage of this to shoot me....

  “Here they come,” said Carbonieri, terrified.

  They swept in, more than twenty of them, carbines and revolvers at the ready.

  Filisarri shouted, “Why aren’t you stripped yet? What are you waiting for, you shitheads? We’re going to shoot the lot of you. Get moving! We don’t want to have to undress you after you’re corpses.”

  “Mr. Filisarri …”

  “Shut your trap, Papillon! You’ll get no pardon here. The little affair you cooked up this time is too serious. And, naturally, all of you here were in on it.”

  His bloodshot eyes bulged out of his head—there was no mistaking their murderous gleam.

  Pierrot started to speak.

  I decided to go for broke. “I can’t believe that a Corsican like you would kill innocent men. You want to shoot? All right, then, but no more talking. We don’t need it. Shoot, but shoot fast, for Christ’s sake! I thought you were a man, Filisarri, a real Corsican, but I was wrong. Too bad. I don’t even want to look at you when you shoot. I’m turning my back. Everybody turn your backs so they can’t say we were attacking them.”

  To a man, they turned their backs. The guards were dumbfounded, all the more so because (as I learned later) Filisarri had killed two poor buggers in one of the other cases.

  “Got anything else to say, Papillon?”

  With my back still turned, I answered, “I don’t believe your story about a revolt. Why should there be a revolt? To kill guards? Then leave on a cavale? Where could they go? I’m a cavale man; I’ve come back from as far away as Colombia. What country’s going to offer asylum to a bunch of escaped murderers? Tell me its name. Don’t be assholes. What man worthy of the name would get mixed up in a thing like this?”

  “You, maybe not, but what about Carbonieri? I’ll bet he was in on it. Arnaud and Hautin were surprised when he reported sick this morning instead of showing up for work.”

  “You’re just guessing.” Then I turned around. “But you’ll find out. Carbonieri is my friend. He knows all about what happened to my cavale, and he knows perfectly well what would happen to a cavale that followed a revolt.”

  At that point the warden arrived. He remained outside. Filisarri went out and the warden called in:

  “Carbonieri!”

  “Present.”

  “Take him to the dungeon, but gently now, no rough stuff. Get everybody out. I want only the head guards to stay. Go bring back all the men still working around the island. Nobody’s to be killed. I want everybody back in the camp without exception.”

  The warden, his second-in-command and Filisarri came into the room with four guards.

  “Papillon, something very serious has happened,” the warden said. “As chief warden of the penitentiary, I have to assume a very heavy responsibility. But before taking the next step, I need some information. I realize that in such a difficult situation you might think it unwise to discuss this with me in private, so I’ve come here. The guard, Duclos, has been murdered. They tried to take the arms from the depot—in my view that makes it a revolt. I have only a few minutes. I trust you. What’s your opinion?”

  “If it was a revolt, why weren’t we in on it? Why weren’t we told? How many were implicated? I think I can answer those three questions, but first I have to know how many men went into action after Duclos was killed and his weapon—I assume—taken.”

  “Three.”

  “Who were they?”

  “Arnaud, Hautin and Marceau.”

  “All right, then. Whether you like it or not, there was no revolt.”

  “That’s a lie, Papillon,” Filisarri interrupted. “This revolt was supposed to take place on Royale. Girasolo squealed, but we didn’t believe him. Now we know everything he said was true. You’re playing us for suckers, Papillon!”

  “Look, if there had been a revolt, we’d have been the ones in charge, not those jerks.”

  “You trying to tell me nobody else was involved? I don’t believe it.”

  “All right, what did the other men do? Did anybody besides those three budge? Did anyone make a move to take over the guardhouse? How many boats are there on Saint-Joseph? One launch. One launch for six hundred men? That would be a little half-assed, wouldn’t it? And killing people to make an escape? Even assuming twenty men got off, they’d be arrested and turned in. Warden, I don’t know how many men your people have killed, but I’m almost certain they were all innocent. And now you want to destroy what little we have left. You may think your anger is justified, but don’t forget that on the day you take away the little that makes our lives bearable, on that day—yes—there may be a real revolt. The revolt of the desperate, a collective suicide. Killing or killed, we’d all die together, guards as well as bagnards. Monsieur Dutain, I’ve spoken to you from the heart. I think you deserve it for having come here to find out what we think. Now leave us alone.”

  “What about those who were involved?” Filisarri said again.

  “It’s up to you to find them. We know nothing; we’re of no use to you. I repeat, this was the folly of amateurs. It’s not our kind of action.”

  “Mr. Filisarri, when the men return, keep them in until further notice. I want two guards at the door, no brutality and no touching wh
at belongs to the men. Let’s go.” The warden left with the other guards.

  Jesus, that was a close one. As he closed the door, Filisarri said to me, “You’re damned lucky I’m a Corsican.”

  In less than an hour almost all the men who belonged in our building were back. Sixteen were missing—the guards were in such a hurry they had locked them up in the wrong buildings. Once everyone was back where he belonged, we learned what had happened, for these men had been in the same work gang. In a hushed voice a thief from Saint-Etienne told me the whole story:

  “Here’s the picture, Papi. We were hauling a rock weighing about a ton over a distance of four hundred yards. The path we used was fairly flat, and when we arrived at a well about fifty yards from the warden’s house, we always stopped and rested. It was in the shade of some coconut palms and about halfway to where we were going. So we stopped per usual and pulled up a big bucket of fresh water. Some drank, others just wet the handkerchiefs they wore around their heads. The break usually lasted around ten minutes, so our guard sat down on the edge of the well. He took off his helmet and was wiping his brow and head with a big handkerchief when Arnaud came up behind him. Arnaud was carrying a hoe, but since he hadn’t raised it, nobody thought to warn the guard. In a split second he lifted the hoe and brought the sharp edge down right in the middle of the guard’s skull. The guard’s head split in two, and he fell flat without making a sound. The minute he hit the ground, Hautin—who had taken up an advance position—grabbed his carbine and Marceau took his belt and revolver. With the gun in hand, Marceau turned toward the whole gang and said, “This is a revolt. Everyone who’s with us, come on.’ There wasn’t a sound from the turnkeys, and not one man in the entire gang made a move to follow. Arnaud looked us over and said, ‘You cowards, we’ll show you what real men are!’ He took the carbine from Hautin’s hands and they both ran toward the warden’s house. Marceau drew off to one side. He had the big revolver in his hand and ordered, ‘Don’t move, not a word, not a sound. You Arabs, down on the ground.’ From where I was, I could see everything.

  “Arnaud was about to climb the steps to the warden’s house when the Arab who worked there happened to open the door, holding one of the warden’s little girls by the hand and the other in his arms. Both men were caught by surprise. The Arab tried to kick Arnaud. Arnaud was about to kill him when the Arab held the child out in front of him as a shield. All this time there wasn’t a sound. Five or six times Arnaud aimed the gun at different parts of the Arab. Each time the Arab held the child between him and the gun. Then Hautin grabbed the bottom of the Arab’s pants. As he was about to fall, the Arab threw the child against the gun in Arnaud’s hands. Arnaud was thrown off-balance, Hautin grabbed the Arab’s leg. Arnaud, the Arab and the other child all fell in a heap. For the first time there were sounds: first screams from the kids, then from the Arab, then curses from Arnaud and Hautin.

  “The gun had fallen to the ground. The Arab got to it first, but he had it only by the barrel and in his left hand. Hautin caught hold of his leg again. Arnaud grabbed his right arm and twisted it, but before they could get it away from him, the Arab threw the carbine a good ten yards.

  “As the three of them were running after it, the first shot rang out, fired by a guard in charge of a leaf-raking gang. The warden appeared at his window and started to shoot, but for fear of hitting the Arab, he aimed where the carbine had fallen. Hautin and Arnaud fled toward the camp by way of the path that follows the shore. Hautin, with his stiff leg, couldn’t run fast enough and was shot down before he reached the water. Arnaud rushed in between the guards’ pool and the one under construction. The place is always swarming with sharks. As another guard came up, he hid himself behind a big rock.

  “‘Give up,’ the guard shouted, ‘and your life will be saved.’

  “‘Never,’ Arnaud answered back. ‘I’d rather be eaten by the sharks. Then at least I won’t have to look at your ugly faces any more.’

  “With that he waded into the sea—smack into the sharks. A bullet must have grazed him. Anyway he stopped for a second. But the guards went right on shooting and Arnaud kept moving farther out. The water wasn’t up to his chest when the sharks hit. The guards saw him clearly, belting a shark that was coming at him half out of the water. He was literally drawn and quartered as the sharks yanked at him from all sides. In less than five minutes he’d disappeared.

  “The guards must have shot at the pack a hundred times at least. One shark was killed; he floated up to the beach, belly side up. As guards began to move in from all sides, Marceau tried to save his skin by throwing the revolver into the well. But the Arabs got to their feet, beating him with sticks, fists and feet, and pushed him toward the guards, saying he was in the plot. Even though he was covered and had his hands up, the guards shot him dead. To finish him off, one of them crushed his head with the butt of his carbine, holding it like a bludgeon by the end of the barrel.

  “As for Hautin, the guards completely unloaded their carbines into him, thirty men, six shots each, over one hundred and fifty bullets. The poor mecs killed by Filisarri were men the Arabs said had started to follow Arnaud, then thought better of it. That was an out-and-out lie, because, accomplices or not, no one moved.”

  We had now been locked up in our various buildings for two days. Nobody went to work. The guards at the door were changed every two hours. Between the buildings, more guards. We were forbidden to talk from one building to the next, forbidden to stand near a window. We could see the yard through the barred door only by standing to one side in the alley that separated the two rows of hammocks. Reinforcements were sent over from Royale. Not a single con was allowed outside. Nor a single Arab turnkey. We were all locked in. From time to time you saw a man stripped to the skin being led toward the maximum-security cells. Guards were constantly looking in on us through the side windows. The ones who stood at the door had short hours, but they never sat down or let go of their guns. They held their carbines under their arms, ready to shoot.

  We decided to try playing in small groups of five. No big games—it would make too much noise. Marquetti started to play a Beethoven sonata, but a guard made him stop.

  “No music! We’re in mourning.”

  An unnatural tension reigned not only in the case but throughout the camp. No coffee, no soup. A piece of bread in the morning, corned beef at noon, corned beef for supper, one can to four men. Nothing of ours had been destroyed, so we had coffee and a little food: butter, oil, flour, etc. The other cases had nothing left. We started a fire in the toilets to make coffee, but when he saw the smoke, a guard made us put it out.

  An old con from Marseilles by the name of Niston made the coffee to sell. He had the gall to tell the guard, “If you want the fire put out, go in and do it yourself.” The guard shot through the window. Coffee and fire disappeared quickly.

  Niston was hit in the leg. We were so tensed up that we thought we were all going to be shot and threw ourselves flat on the floor.

  Filisarri, who was still on duty as head of the guard detail, came running in like a madman, accompanied by his four guards. The one who had done the shooting was a Frenchman. Filisarri cursed him out in Corsican, but he didn’t understand a word. All he could say was, “Don’t understand.”

  We got back on our hammocks.

  Niston’s leg was bleeding. “Don’t tell ’em I’m wounded. They might take advantage of the opportunity and finish me off out there.”

  Filisarri told Marquetti in Corsican, “Go make your coffee. Nothing more is going to happen.” Then he left.

  Niston was lucky: the bullet hadn’t stayed in his leg. It had entered below the calf muscle and gone out farther up. A tourniquet was applied, the bleeding stopped, and he was given a vinegar dressing.

  “Papillon, come.” It was eight at night and dark outside. “The warden wants to see you.”

  “Tell him to come here. I’m not leaving.”

  “You refuse?”

  “Yes, I ref
use.”

  My friends came and stood around me in a circle. The guard spoke through the closed door. Marquetti went up to him and said, “We’re not letting Papillon out unless the warden comes.”

  “But it’s the warden who’s sent for him.”

  “Tell him to come himself.”

  An hour later two young guards were at the door. With them they had the Arab who worked at the warden’s, the one who had come to his rescue and broken up the revolt.

  “Papillon, it’s me, Mohamed. The warden wants to see you. He can’t come himself so he sent me.”

  Marquetti said, “Papi, the mec has a gun.”

  I left the circle and went to the door. It was true that Mohamed was carrying a carbine under his arm. That was really something. A bagnard officially armed with a carbine!

  “Come,” the Algerian said to me. “I’m here to protect you.”

  I didn’t believe him.

  “Come along.”

  I went out. Mohamed stationed himself at my side and the two guards stood behind. As we passed the guards’ house by the camp entrance, Filisarri said, “Papillon, I hope you’re not holding anything against me.”

  “Not me. Or anybody else in our case. I wouldn’t know about the others.”

  We went down to the warden’s. The house and the quay were dimly lit by carbide lamps. On the way Mohamed gave me a pack of Gauloises. We entered a room brightly lit by two carbide lamps, and seated there were the warden of Royale, his deputy, the warden of Saint-Joseph, the warden of Réclusion and the deputy warden of Saint-Joseph.

  Just outside I noticed four Arabs under guard. I recognized two of them as belonging to the work gang under discussion.

  Mohamed said, “Here’s Papillon.”

  “Good evening, Papillon,” said the warden of Saint-Joseph.

  “Good evening.”

  “Please sit down.”

  I sat down, facing the lot. The door of the room opened into the kitchen, where I saw Lisette’s godmother making a gesture of greeting.