Papillon (13 page)

“A thousand francs,” Toussaint said. “I’d like to help them too.”

“Thanks for everything,” Maturette said, looking at Jean sans Peur.

“Thanks,” said Clousiot.

I began to feel ashamed of my lie, so I said, “No, I can’t accept it. There’s no reason for it.”

Jean looked at me and said, “Sure there’s a reason. Three thousand francs is a lot of money, but even at that price Toussaint is losing at least two thousand, for that’s a great boat he’s giving you. So there’s no reason why I can’t give you something too.”

Then a very moving thing happened. La Chouette placed a hat on the ground and all the lepers came and threw in bills and silver. They came from everywhere and every last one put in something. Now I was really ashamed. How could I tell them that I still had some money? God, what a fix! It was despicable to let this go on in the face of such generosity. Then a mutilated black from Timbuktu—his hands were stumps, he hadn’t a single finger—said to us, “Money doesn’t help us live. Don’t be ashamed to accept it. All we use it for is gambling or screwing the girl lepers who come here sometimes from Albina.” This relieved my guilt and I never did admit I still had money.

The lepers supplied us with two hundred hard-boiled eggs in a crate marked with a red cross. It was the same crate that had arrived that morning with the day’s medicine. They also brought two live turtles weighing at least sixty pounds each, some leaf tobacco, two bottles of matches and a striking pad, a sack of rice weighing at least a hundred pounds, two bags of charcoal, a primus stove taken from the infirmary and a demijohn of fuel. Everybody in this miserable community was touched by our predicament and wanted to help. It was almost as if our
cavale
were theirs. The boat was pulled to where we had made our original landing. They counted the money in the hat: eight hundred and ten francs. I owed Toussaint only twelve hundred. Clousiot handed me his
plan
and I opened it before everybody. It contained a thousand-franc bill and four bills of five hundred each. I gave Toussaint fifteen hundred francs and he gave me back three hundred, saying:

“Here, take the revolver. It’s a present. This is your only chance; you don’t want to fail at the last moment for lack of a weapon. But I hope you won’t have to use it.”

I didn’t know how to thank them, him first, then all the others. The orderly prepared a small box with cotton, alcohol, aspirin, bandages, iodine, a pair of scissors and some adhesive tape. A leper produced two small, carefully planed planks and two Ace bandages still in their original wrappings so that we could replace Clousiot’s splints.

Toward five o’clock it began to rain. Jean sans Peur said, “You’re in luck. This will keep them from
seeing
you. You can leave now and it will give you a good half hour’s headstart. You’ll be that much nearer the mouth of the river by four-thirty tomorrow morning.”

“How will I know the time?”

“You’ll know by the tide, by whether it’s rising or falling.” The boat was put in the water. It was a far cry from our old one. This boat floated more than sixteen inches above the water line, fully loaded, us included. The mast was rolled up in the sail in the bottom of the boat since we weren’t to use it until we were out of the river. We put the rudder and tiller in place and found a grass cushion for me to sit on. With the blankets, we fixed up a corner for Clousiot in the bottom of the boat, between me and the water barrel. Maturette sat on the bottom in the bow. Right away I had a feeling of security I had never had in the other one.

It was still raining, and I was to go down the middle of the river but a little to the left, toward the Dutch side. Jean sans Peur said, “Good-by. And get moving!”

“Good luck!” said Toussaint, and gave the boat a strong shove with his foot.

“Thanks, Toussaint, thanks, Jean, everybody, thanks a million!” We were off and away fast, for the ebb tide had started two and a half hours before and was now moving with incredible speed.

It continued to rain and we couldn’t see thirty feet in front of us. There were two small islands lower down, and Maturette was leaning over the bow, his eyes straining for any sign of rocks. Night came. A large tree was going down the river with us—happily at a slower pace. For a moment we were entangled in its branches, but we freed ourselves quickly and resumed our lightning speed. We smoked, we drank some rum. The lepers had given us six straw-covered Chianti bottles filled with it. It was odd, but not one of us mentioned the lepers’ terrible deformities. We talked only of their kindness, their generosity and honesty, and our luck in meeting the Masked Breton. It was raining harder and harder. I was soaked to the bone, but our woolen sweaters were so good that, even soaking wet, they kept us warm. Only my hand on the tiller was stiff with cold.

“We’re going more than twenty-five miles an hour now,” Maturette said. “How long do you think we’ve been gone?”

“I’ll tell you in a minute,” Clousiot said. “Wait—three hours and fifteen minutes.”

“You’re joking. How do you know?”

“I’ve been counting in groups of three hundred seconds since we left. At the end of each one I cut a piece of cardboard. I have thirty-nine pieces. Since each one represents five minutes, that means three hours and a quarter since we started. And unless I’m wrong, in the next fifteen or twenty minutes we won’t be going down any more; we’ll be going back up where we came from.”

I pushed the tiller to the right in order to cut across the river and get closer to the Dutch coast. The current stopped just as we were about to crash into the brush. We didn’t move, either up or down. It was still raining. We stopped smoking, we stopped talking. I whispered, “Take a paddle and pull.” I paddled, holding the tiller under my right thigh. We grazed the brush, pulled on the branches and hid underneath. It was completely dark inside the vegetation. The river was gray and covered with a heavy mist. Without the evidence of the tide’s ebb and flow, it would be impossible to tell where the river ended and the sea began.

The rising tide was to last six hours. Then we were to wait an hour and a half after the turn of the tide. That meant I had seven hours to sleep, if only I could calm down. I had to sleep now, for when would I have time at sea? I stretched out between the barrel and the mast, Maturette used a blanket to make a tent between the barrel and the bench, and thus well protected, I slept and I slept. Nothing disturbed me, not dreams, rain, or my uncomfortable position. I slept, I slept—until Maturette woke me and said:

“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.”