Papillon. Анри Шарьер

so you can get off right away and gain at least half an hour. That way you’ll be nearer the mouth when you start again at half-past four in the morning.’

      ‘How shall I know the time?’ I asked him.

      ‘The tide’ll tell you, coming in or out.’

      We launched the boat. It was not like the canoe at all. Even with us and all our things aboard, the gunwale was a good eighteen inches from the water. The mast, wrapped in the sail, lay flat fore and aft, because we were not to put it up until we were about to run out of the river. We shipped the rudder, with its safety-bar and tiller, and put a pad of creepers for me to sit on. We made a comfortable place in the bottom of the boat with the blankets for Clousiot, who had not wanted to have his bandages changed. He lay at my feet, between me and the water-barrel. Maturette was in the bottom too, but up forward. Straight away I had a feeling of safety and solidity that I had never had in the canoe.

      It was still raining. I was to go down the middle of the river, but rather to the left, over on the Dutch side. Jean sans Peur said, ‘Good-bye. Push off quick.’

      ‘Good luck,’ said Toussaint, and he gave the boat a great shove with his foot.

      ‘Thanks, Toussaint. Thanks, Jean. Thanks, everybody, thanks a thousand times over!’ And we vanished at great speed, swept along by the ebb-tide that had begun quite two and a half hours ago and that was now running at an unbelievable pace.

      It rained steadily: we couldn’t see ten yards in front of us. There were two little islands lower down, so Maturette leant out over the bows, staring ahead so we shouldn’t run on their rocks. Night fell. For a moment we were half caught in the branches of a big tree that was going down the river with us, but fortunately not quite so fast. We quickly got free and carried on at something like twenty miles an hour. We smoked: we drank rum. The lepers had given us half a dozen of those straw-covered Chianti bottles, but filled with tafia. It was odd, but not one of us mentioned the hideous mutilations we had seen among the lepers. The only thing we talked about was their kindness, their generosity, their straightness and our good luck in having met the Masked Breton, who took us to Pigeon Island. It rained harder and harder and I was wet through: but those woollen jackets were such good quality they kept you warm even when they were soaked. We were not cold. The only thing was my hand on the tiller – the rain made it go stiff.

      ‘We’re running at more than twenty-five miles an hour now,’ said Maturette, ‘How long do you think we’ve been gone for?’

      ‘I’ll tell you,’ said Clousiot. ‘Just a moment. Three and a quarter hours.’

      ‘Are you crazy, man? How can you possibly tell?’

      ‘I’ve been counting ever since we left and at each three hundred seconds I’ve torn off a piece of cardboard. There’re thirty-nine bits now. At five minutes a go, that makes three hours and a quarter. Unless I’ve got it wrong, in fifteen or twenty minutes we shan’t be running down any more, but going back to where we came from.’

      I thrust the tiller over to my right to slant across the stream and get into the bank on the Dutch side. Before we reached the shore the current had stopped. We were no longer going down; and we weren’t going up, either. It was still raining. We no longer smoked; we no longer talked – we whispered. ‘Take the paddle and shove.’ I paddled too, holding the tiller wedged under my right leg. Gently we came up against the bush: we seized branches and pulled, sheltering beneath them. We were in the darkness of the vegetation. The river was grey, quite covered with thick mist. If we had not been able to rely upon the ebb and flow of the tides, it would have been impossible to tell where the sea lay and where the landward river.

      Right Out and Away

      The flood-tide would last six hours. Then there was the hour and a half to wait for the ebb. I should be able to sleep for seven hours, although I was very much on edge. I had to get some sleep, because once out at sea, when should I be able to lie down? I stretched out between the barrel and the mast; Maturette laid a blanket over the thwart and the barrel by way of a cover, and there in the shelter I slept and slept. Dreams, rain, cramped position – nothing disturbed that deep, heavy sleep.

      I slept and slept until Maturette woke me. ‘Papi, we think it’s time, or just about. The ebb has been running a good while.’

      The boat had turned towards the sea and under my fingers the current raced by. It was no longer raining, and by the light of a quarter moon we could distinctly see the river a hundred yards in front of us, carrying trees, vegetation and dark shapes upon its surface. I tried to distinguish the exact place where the sea and river met. Where we were lying there was no wind. Was there any out in the middle? Was it strong? We pushed out from under the bush, the boat still hitched to a big root. Looking at the sky I could just make out the coast, where the river ended and the sea began. We had run much farther down than we had thought, and it seemed to me that we were under six miles from the mouth. We had a stiff tot of rum. Should we step the mast now? Yes, said the others. It was up, very strongly held in its heel and the hole in the thwart. I hoisted the sail without unfurling it, keeping it tight to the mast. Maturette was ready to haul up the staysail and jib when I said. All that was needed to fill the sail was to cast loose the line holding it close to the mast, and I’d be able to do that from where I sat. Maturette had one paddle in the bows and I had another in the stern: we should have to shove out very strong and fast, for the current was pressing us tight against the bank.

      ‘Everybody ready. Shove away. In the name of God.’

      ‘In the name of God,’ repeated Clousiot.

      ‘Into Thy hands I entrust myself,’ said Maturette.

      And we shoved. Both together we shoved on the water with our blades – I thrust deep and I pulled hard: so did Maturette. We got under way as easy as kiss my hand. We weren’t a stone’s throw from the bank before the tide had swept us down a good hundred yards. Suddenly there was the breeze, pushing us out towards the middle.

      ‘Hoist the staysail and jib – make all fast.’ They filled: the boat reared-like a horse and shot away. It must have been later than the time we’d planned, because all of a sudden the river was as light as though the sun was up. About a mile away on our right we could see the French bank clearly, and perhaps half a mile on the left, the Dutch. Right ahead, and perfectly distinct the white crests of the breaking ocean waves.

      ‘Christ, we got the time wrong,’ said Clousiot. ‘Do you think we’ll have long enough to get out?’

      ‘I don’t know.’

      ‘Look how high the waves are, and how they break so white! Can the flood have started?’

      ‘Impossible. I can see things going down.’

      Maturette said, ‘We shan’t be able to get out. We shan’t be there in time.’

      ‘You shut your bloody mouth and sit there by the jib and staysail sheets. You shut up too, Clousiot.’

      Bang. Bang. Rifles, shooting at us. I distinctly spotted the second. It was not screws firing at all: the shots were coming from Dutch Guiana. I hoisted the mainsail and it filled with such strength that the sheet tearing at my wrist nearly had me in the water. The boat lay over at more than forty-five degrees. I bore away as fast as I could – it wasn’t hard, for there was wind and to spare. Bang, bang, bang, and then no more. We had run farther towards the French side than the Dutch, and that was certainly why the firing stopped.

      We tore along at a blinding speed, with a wind fit to carry everything away. We were going so fast that we shot across the middle of the estuary, and I could see that in a few minutes’ time we should be right up against the French bank. I could see men running towards the shore. Gently, as gently as possible, I came about, heaving on the sheet with all my strength. We came up into the wind: the jib went over all by itself and so did the staysail. The boat turned, turned, I let go the sheet and we ran out of the river straight before the wind. Christ, we’d done it! It was over! Ten minutes later a sea-wave tried to stop us;