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Authors: Henri Charrière
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don’t go to the islands, no matter what. Another hope is, if the boat to the islands isn’t ready for the trip, to offer money to the infirmary orderly. He’ll give you a shot of turpentine or stick a piece of hair soaked in urine into your flesh to make it fester. Or he’ll give you some sulphur to breathe, then tell the doctor you have a fever of a hundred and four. While you wait these few days, get to the hospital, no matter what.
“If you’re not called up and you’re left behind in the camp barracks, you have time to do something. In that case, try not to get a job inside the camp. Pay the man in charge so that you can work in the village as a cesspool cleaner or a sweeper, or get a job in a sawmill run by civilians. On your way back and forth to work you’ll have a chance to make contact with liberated cons living in the village, or the Chinese, so they can start preparing your escape. Stay away from the camps around the village. Everybody there dies fast. There are camps where nobody lasts three months. They make you cut a quarter of a cord of wood a day in the middle of the bush.”
Julot kept feeding us these precious bits of information all through the trip. He was prepared himself. He knew that, as a returned escapee, he’d be going directly into a dungeon. He also had a very small, very sharp knife, really a penknife, in his plan . As we docked, he planned to cut his knee open. Then, as he was leaving the boat, he would fall off the ladder in front of everybody. He hoped he’d be carried from the wharf directly to the hospital. And he was.
SAINT-LAURENT-DU-MARON I
Some of the guards went off duty so that they could change their clothes. They came back dressed in white, wearing the colonial cap instead of the kepi. Julot said, “We must be almost there.” The heat was intense because they had closed the portholes. Through them we could see the bush. So we were on the Maroni! The water was muddy, the virgin forest vividly green. Birds flew off, disturbed by the ship’s siren. We were going very slowly now, which allowed us plenty of time to examine the lush, dense, deep-green vegetation. Then came the first houses—wooden, with zinc roofs. Black men and women stood in front of their doors watching the ship go by. They were used to seeing it unload its human cargo and stood impassive. Three wails of the siren and the noise of the screws told us we were about to dock, then all sounds stopped. Silence. You could have heard the buzzing of a fly.
No one spoke. Julot had his knife out and was cutting his pants at the knees and roughing up the edges. He would cut himself only when he reached the bridge so that there would be no tell-tale trail of blood. The guards opened the cage door and lined us up in threes. We were in the fourth row, Julot between Dega and me. We climbed up to the bridge. It was two in the afternoon and a fiery sun beat down on my eyes and sheared pate. We were lined up on the bridge, then marched toward the gangplank. As the first man reached it, there was a general hesitation. I held Julot’s pack to his shoulder; with his two hands he tore at the skin of his knees, dug the knife in and sliced off three or four inches of flesh. Then he slipped me the knife and resumed holding his pack. As we stepped on the gangplank, he fell and rolled to the bottom. He was picked up, and when they saw he was hurt, they summoned two stretcher-bearers. The scenario had been played out exactly as planned.
A motley crowd was on hand to watch us. Blacks, mulattoes, Indians, Chinese, dregs of whites (probably liberated convicts) examined each of us as we stepped on land and lined up with the rest. Behind the guards stood well-dressed civilians, women in summer dresses, children wearing the colonial cap. They were watching the new arrivals too. When there were two hundred of us, the convoy set off. We walked about ten minutes until we arrived in front of a building. On its thick wooden gate was
“If you’re not called up and you’re left behind in the camp barracks, you have time to do something. In that case, try not to get a job inside the camp. Pay the man in charge so that you can work in the village as a cesspool cleaner or a sweeper, or get a job in a sawmill run by civilians. On your way back and forth to work you’ll have a chance to make contact with liberated cons living in the village, or the Chinese, so they can start preparing your escape. Stay away from the camps around the village. Everybody there dies fast. There are camps where nobody lasts three months. They make you cut a quarter of a cord of wood a day in the middle of the bush.”
Julot kept feeding us these precious bits of information all through the trip. He was prepared himself. He knew that, as a returned escapee, he’d be going directly into a dungeon. He also had a very small, very sharp knife, really a penknife, in his plan . As we docked, he planned to cut his knee open. Then, as he was leaving the boat, he would fall off the ladder in front of everybody. He hoped he’d be carried from the wharf directly to the hospital. And he was.
SAINT-LAURENT-DU-MARON I
Some of the guards went off duty so that they could change their clothes. They came back dressed in white, wearing the colonial cap instead of the kepi. Julot said, “We must be almost there.” The heat was intense because they had closed the portholes. Through them we could see the bush. So we were on the Maroni! The water was muddy, the virgin forest vividly green. Birds flew off, disturbed by the ship’s siren. We were going very slowly now, which allowed us plenty of time to examine the lush, dense, deep-green vegetation. Then came the first houses—wooden, with zinc roofs. Black men and women stood in front of their doors watching the ship go by. They were used to seeing it unload its human cargo and stood impassive. Three wails of the siren and the noise of the screws told us we were about to dock, then all sounds stopped. Silence. You could have heard the buzzing of a fly.
No one spoke. Julot had his knife out and was cutting his pants at the knees and roughing up the edges. He would cut himself only when he reached the bridge so that there would be no tell-tale trail of blood. The guards opened the cage door and lined us up in threes. We were in the fourth row, Julot between Dega and me. We climbed up to the bridge. It was two in the afternoon and a fiery sun beat down on my eyes and sheared pate. We were lined up on the bridge, then marched toward the gangplank. As the first man reached it, there was a general hesitation. I held Julot’s pack to his shoulder; with his two hands he tore at the skin of his knees, dug the knife in and sliced off three or four inches of flesh. Then he slipped me the knife and resumed holding his pack. As we stepped on the gangplank, he fell and rolled to the bottom. He was picked up, and when they saw he was hurt, they summoned two stretcher-bearers. The scenario had been played out exactly as planned.
A motley crowd was on hand to watch us. Blacks, mulattoes, Indians, Chinese, dregs of whites (probably liberated convicts) examined each of us as we stepped on land and lined up with the rest. Behind the guards stood well-dressed civilians, women in summer dresses, children wearing the colonial cap. They were watching the new arrivals too. When there were two hundred of us, the convoy set off. We walked about ten minutes until we arrived in front of a building. On its thick wooden gate was
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