for the plan , but for the knife, yes.”
“Excuse me, sir, but the knife isn’t mine.”
“Don’t give me that. Look, I found it in your shoes,” the guard said.
“I repeat. The knife is not mine.”
“So I’m a liar?”
“No, you’re mistaken.”
“Well, then, whose knife is it?” Warden Barrot asked. “If it isn’t yours, whose is it?”
“It isn’t mine, that’s all I know.”
“If you don’t want to cook over the boilers, tell us who the knife belongs to.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t try to bullshit me. We find a knife in your shoes and you don’t know who it belongs to? You think I’m stupid? Either it’s yours or you know who put it there. Which?”
“It’s not mine, and it’s not for me to say whose it is. I’m no stoolie. Do I look like one of your bunch?”
“Guard, put him in handcuffs. You’re going to pay for your insolence.”
The two officers exchanged words. The ship’s captain gave an order to a petty officer who then left. A few moments later a Breton sailor appeared, a giant with a wooden bucket full of sea water and a heavy rope as thick as your wrist. Roméo was tied kneeling to the lowest step. The sailor soaked the rope in the bucket and then, with all his strength, he slowly struck the poor bastard across the buttocks and back. Not a sound came from his lips, but the blood began to run from his buttocks and his sides. In the tomb-like silence a single cry of protest rose from our cage:
“You bastards!”
That was all we needed to set us off. “Murderers! Sons of bitches! Assholes!” The more they threatened us, the more we yelled.
Then suddenly the warden shouted: “Turn on the steam!”
Wheels were turned and bursts of steam gushed against our chests with such force we were thrown to the floor. We panicked. The men who were scalded didn’t dare to cry out. It lasted less than a minute, but everyone was terrified.
“I hope you troublemakers got the point. Anything happens and I turn on the steam. Is that clear? Now get up!”
Three men, seriously burned, were taken to the infirmary. The boy they had whipped was returned to our cell. He was to die six years later, in a cavale with me.
During the eighteen days we had plenty of time to pick up information about the bagne . Nothing turned out as Julot predicted, but he did his best.
He explained, for example, that Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni was a village about seventy-five miles from the sea on a river called the Maroni. “The penitentiary is in this village. It’s the headquarters of the bagne . That’s where they divide us up by categories. The relégués go directly to a penitentiary ninety-five miles from there called Saint-Jean. The rest are classified in three groups. The most dangerous will be called up as soon as we arrive and put in cells in the disciplinary section while they wait to be transferred to the Iles du Salut. They’re interned there for the duration of their sentences. The islands are three hundred miles from Saint-Laurent and sixty miles from Cayenne. Cons hardly ever go to Diable. Those who go there are political prisoners.
“The second group of dangerous prisoners stay at Saint-Laurent and are put to work in the gardens and fields. If necessary, they’re sent on to the toughest camps: Forestier, Charvin, Cascade, Crique Rouge and Forty Kilometers—which is called the death camp.
“Then there’s the so-called normal category. They work in the Administration, the kitchens, cleaning the village or the camp, or working at different things in the workshops, carpentry, painting, ironwork, electricity, mattress making, tailoring, the laundry, etc.
“So the hour of truth is the hour of arrival. If you’re called up and taken to a cell, it means you’re going to be interned on the islands. That means you give up all hope of escape. The only way out is to get hurt fast—cut your knee or your gut so they’ll send you to the hospital. You can escape from there. But
“Excuse me, sir, but the knife isn’t mine.”
“Don’t give me that. Look, I found it in your shoes,” the guard said.
“I repeat. The knife is not mine.”
“So I’m a liar?”
“No, you’re mistaken.”
“Well, then, whose knife is it?” Warden Barrot asked. “If it isn’t yours, whose is it?”
“It isn’t mine, that’s all I know.”
“If you don’t want to cook over the boilers, tell us who the knife belongs to.”
“I don’t know.”
“Don’t try to bullshit me. We find a knife in your shoes and you don’t know who it belongs to? You think I’m stupid? Either it’s yours or you know who put it there. Which?”
“It’s not mine, and it’s not for me to say whose it is. I’m no stoolie. Do I look like one of your bunch?”
“Guard, put him in handcuffs. You’re going to pay for your insolence.”
The two officers exchanged words. The ship’s captain gave an order to a petty officer who then left. A few moments later a Breton sailor appeared, a giant with a wooden bucket full of sea water and a heavy rope as thick as your wrist. Roméo was tied kneeling to the lowest step. The sailor soaked the rope in the bucket and then, with all his strength, he slowly struck the poor bastard across the buttocks and back. Not a sound came from his lips, but the blood began to run from his buttocks and his sides. In the tomb-like silence a single cry of protest rose from our cage:
“You bastards!”
That was all we needed to set us off. “Murderers! Sons of bitches! Assholes!” The more they threatened us, the more we yelled.
Then suddenly the warden shouted: “Turn on the steam!”
Wheels were turned and bursts of steam gushed against our chests with such force we were thrown to the floor. We panicked. The men who were scalded didn’t dare to cry out. It lasted less than a minute, but everyone was terrified.
“I hope you troublemakers got the point. Anything happens and I turn on the steam. Is that clear? Now get up!”
Three men, seriously burned, were taken to the infirmary. The boy they had whipped was returned to our cell. He was to die six years later, in a cavale with me.
During the eighteen days we had plenty of time to pick up information about the bagne . Nothing turned out as Julot predicted, but he did his best.
He explained, for example, that Saint-Laurent-du-Maroni was a village about seventy-five miles from the sea on a river called the Maroni. “The penitentiary is in this village. It’s the headquarters of the bagne . That’s where they divide us up by categories. The relégués go directly to a penitentiary ninety-five miles from there called Saint-Jean. The rest are classified in three groups. The most dangerous will be called up as soon as we arrive and put in cells in the disciplinary section while they wait to be transferred to the Iles du Salut. They’re interned there for the duration of their sentences. The islands are three hundred miles from Saint-Laurent and sixty miles from Cayenne. Cons hardly ever go to Diable. Those who go there are political prisoners.
“The second group of dangerous prisoners stay at Saint-Laurent and are put to work in the gardens and fields. If necessary, they’re sent on to the toughest camps: Forestier, Charvin, Cascade, Crique Rouge and Forty Kilometers—which is called the death camp.
“Then there’s the so-called normal category. They work in the Administration, the kitchens, cleaning the village or the camp, or working at different things in the workshops, carpentry, painting, ironwork, electricity, mattress making, tailoring, the laundry, etc.
“So the hour of truth is the hour of arrival. If you’re called up and taken to a cell, it means you’re going to be interned on the islands. That means you give up all hope of escape. The only way out is to get hurt fast—cut your knee or your gut so they’ll send you to the hospital. You can escape from there. But
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