In 1852 free transportation was offered as a “favor” and more than 3,000 accepted. In 1854 Napoleon III, that third-class Napoleon, made Cayenne a penal colony for his political enemies, as if he hadn’t already enough crimes to atone for. Between 1852 and 1867, 18,000 exiles were brought over, although New Caledonia for the next 20 years became the ticket-of-leave tourist resort. In 1885-7 confirmed criminals, and those with more than 8-year sentences to hard labor, were shipped here. However, they have proved unfit for government employment. Convicts formerly sent to Caledonia had such lease of long life, that they are now sent to Guiana to reduce living expenses. Grave-digging, next to gold-digging, is the principal occupation.
In Cayenne, the majority of the prisoners are negroes, Arabs and Annamites. Now most of the outcasts are sent to unsaintly St. Laurent. Formerly they were herded at Cayenne, the three Iles du Salut, on one of which Captain Dreyfus was imprisoned, and the Kourou River, La Mere being reserved as a home for the old and sick. The convicts have trades, and are bakers, carpenters and tanners, etc. They make curios, such as balata boats, whips with Kaiser and dog heads on the handle, separable tables, fibre vanity bags, and cigar-cutters in the shape of a guillotine. They are employed as balata-bleeders and in gold-camps, and have built some thrifty miles of road in the country where there is little agriculture or cattle-raising. The little money made is spent on rum and tobacco, and the franc notes saved are tightly rolled up in a small cylindrical receptacle which they use as a suppository to prevent robbery—nevertheless, horrible murders and mutilations are common. There is the cut-throat class sent here from Paris for life. Inhabitants tell you that if they boldly and insultingly beg you for gold, you should give them lead. Then there is a harmless class made up of those convicted three times for some petty offense.
Cayenne twice a year. The culprits had steel-cage cabins to prevent them from jumping overboard and swimming home across the Atlantic. As the Athenians sent youths and maidens to be devoured by the Minotaur every year, so this monstrous country eats up 2,000 convicts annually. In the old days, when a prisoner died, the corpse was sewn in a sack, taken to the water and a bell tolled. The sharks knew the sound and instantly rose to the surface, making it black with their fins as they hastened to the funeral meat. Felons with sentences for more than five years are compelled to serve an additional term of the same period as settlers in the colony. When a contractor wants convict labor, he gets it from the government for so much money if it can be spared. The “liberes,” though having served their term, are not free to leave the colony, and since the work is done by the regular prisoners, it is hard to land a job. Accordingly, many starve to death, unless they steal provisions. They may be skilful artisans, but have no tools, are not wanted in town, so they go to the country to loaf or pilfer, where they are arrested and punished as tramps. Often for petty theft an overseer ties his victim to a tree and beats him with a balata whip. When they do procure work it is big with little wages. It is impossible for the white man to work in the sun or stand like a black man all day in the water. Many convict camps are abandoned on account of unhealthy surroundings.
Poorly fed, the prisoners stalk around like spectres. They receive scanty rice rations for the amount of work they do, and are compelled to beg from everybody. Their murderously-minded Corsican keepers look like fiends in human form, provoke to kill, and like the followers of Marquis de Sade, take a mad pleasure in torture, gloating over the suffering of the wretches they starve and flog. As companions I prefer the thief and assassin convict to the jailer with his white cork helmet jammed down over a low forehead, his shaggy black brows and lashes from which flash heartless glances, his long, bandit-like mustachios, framing a savage slit for a mouth, and his brutal jaw. Far from the restraint of civilization he becomes a beast in fury, and loves to torment his charge. Hearts as well as stones are broken in these prisons. The convict’s complaint is useless, for his letters are censored, doctored and amputated before they reach home. There was one American down here for stealing. He told a friend of mine he could be trusted up to $500, but any amount over that he would steal. Escaped prisoners taken back to Cayenne are often chained to the deck, lashed and kicked by ruthless black guards, and left to wallow in their excrement. The mouths of the rivers are well guarded, and all told there are about 700 police who set the springs to this death-trap. Camps are insanitary and full of disease, insects and vermin. After work the exiles are thrust into dark cells of decaying barracks. Still they have some privileges besides death and torture. They are furnished a piece of ground with necessary tools to work it; allowed to send home for their families, or to have a contract marriage if they have been here two years and shown good behaviour.
If the convict escapes, the French officials don’t care much. He prefers the savage jungle to his savage keeper, fleeing to the bush not half so wild, through fen and flood to Brazil, Dutch and British Guiana. With no weapons for game or hook for fish, they grow mad with hunger, kill each other and have cannibal feasts, for which they are guillotined if captured. To avoid ambush they go in gangs, and when they eat or rest watch the four points of the compass. Just as America had an underground railway between the North and South to aid the fugitive slaves, so in Paramaribo, Dutch Guiana, there are agents of a society formed in France who provide food, clothes and money to aid the convict’s escape. There I was informed that the American Bauxite Company engages escaped convicts, and gives them a chance. However, in holy British Guiana, if caught, they are sent back or given so many days to leave the colony, in which case they often fly to Venezuela. Recently there was a frightful murder in the bush, a man’s head was chopped off and placed in a canoe to shoot the falls in order to cover traces of the crime. But as in Eugene Aram, guilt could not be hidden, for the canoe went over the rapids and falls without spilling its gruesome cargo; it was beached, discovered; the assassins were tracked; and an aeroplane was sent from the penal colony which swooped down on the murderers like a bird of prey and carried them off to prison.
Paradoxical as it may seem, the salvation of Cayenne is the convict—he does the work. I talked with a man who employs convicts and he said they were all “good” workers. Many of the other inhabitants, who sweat to get balata and gold, are just as bad outlaws, their life being one guilty round of drink, seduction, cruelty and crime.
The colony is full of physical as well as moral lepers. Like the other Guianas, elephantiasis, leprosy and filthy diseases scurf and scourge. The jungles are full of envenomed serpents. As for heat, the country is a few degrees above the equator and many above the boiling point. This dirty land is washed by the Atlantic, although the ocean does not, as Euripides says, wash away the wounds and stain of the world, but rather washes them here from France. Like a New York garbage boat carrying refuse to the sea, French convict ships dump the offal of humanity on these shores. The Pilgrims came to America with religious convictions, somewhat different from the convictions criminal and otherwise those Frenchmen held who settled Canada, Caledonia and Cayenne. Climate here is one long season of sorrow. Guiana is an outlaw country, a jumping-off place of the world, a back-door to perdition; a dominion of dolour, despair, mud and blood, where Death is the jailer who frees. The cities of Cayenne and St. Laurent are cities of dreadful day and night where spread
“Infections of unutterable sadness,
Infections of incalculable madness,
Infections of incurable despair.”