Spawn of the Penitentiary 1: From Devil's Island to the City of Lights by Goron Gautier & Émile Gautier

Author:Goron Gautier & Émile Gautier
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Black Coat Press
Published: 2013-06-26T00:00:00+00:00

XII. The Gold-Seekers

Selecting for preference the paths traced through the edge of the forest by the indigenes, Rozen had marched, living on roots and drinking the water that oozed from the feet of the trees, which he also found in the shoots of wild pineapples.

He had required a supernatural energy to resist the horrible fatigues of the trek through the forest, in the glaucous daylight, obscured by the thick foliage.

Twice, he had been lucky, after unintentionally coming back to the river bank, to escape the attention of Dutch customs men. The latter might not have believed his affirmations. Doubtless with great respect, but with the obstinacy of soldiers who only know how to follow orders, they would have taken Rozen to Paramaribo, where the authorities, alerted to an escape, would not have failed, after a investigation, to send the prisoner back to the bagne—and the prospect of falling back into the hands of the prison guards, of being sent back to Île Royale, of losing any hope of ever recovering his liberty, of leading the high life, of dominating men and taking his revenge on them, gave the refugee the strength to bear the tortures and privations of that frightful odyssey through the inextricable thickets, through which he could not clear a path without lacerating his hands and face.

He did not feel the horrible bites of the ticks, bugs and parasites of every sort that scarred his legs. Fever prevented him sleeping. In any case, sleep might have been fatal…he might have become torpid in the cold, damp night, and fallen. To fall would have meant death, and what a death!

He heard jaguars prowling around him, with muffled mewling sounds, sniffing hi fresh flesh.

Gradually, he had reached the state of only having one thought in his mind, a kind of obsession, such as record-breaking cyclists have in the middle of a race: to march, march on, march further, march incessantly, except to succumb at last to exhaustion and collapse like a inert mass.

Time dragged on terrible for the refugee. He began to hallucinate. Several times, he thought he was going mad. The ghost of the boatman loomed up in front of him, spectral and menacing, the body quivering…and the sinister apparition sniggered.

Cruel and ironic words buzzed in Rozen’s ears. “It wasn’t worth the trouble of knifing me. You won’t get much further. You’re going to die too. Farewell, dreams of fortune and grandeur Yes, yes, your carcass will go that way; like mine, it will be prey to the ants!”

And the unfortunate man felt his entire being shaken by dolorous frissons. His skull seemed ready to explode; cold sweat covered his body. His teeth chattered. But his natural vigor ended up getting the upper hand again, and the fit of fever passed; all his energy sand determination returned, and furiously, haunted by the desire to find a native village, he parted the undergrowth, insensible to the scratches that bloodied his flesh.

Finally, after several days, on the bank of the Maroni, to which he had unwittingly returned, he spotted the huts of an Indian tribe.

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