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The Devil's Island Diaries

A Policeman's Life on a Penal Colony

By SJ CarpenterPublished 2 years ago 3 min read
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A view of the cathedral at Bayeux, Stefan Bassé's home town in Normandy, France.

November 23rd, 1877.

I remember seeing an old map in a schoolbook many years ago. It was from the century before we knew where everything was. There was a note in the margin, ‘here be monsters.’

Of course, there never were any monsters roaming the seas that were not aboard a privateer. Now, in the new republic of the 1870s we collect monsters and bring them here, to Devil’s Island, and the penal colony where they will likely perish.

I am Sergeant Stefan Bassé late of the 17th Arondissement, Paris. Before that, Bayeux, Normandy. Why am I here? Paris was not far enough away from home, where monsters of my own making wait in vain for my return.

As soon as I reported to the commissariat on the mainland in Cayenne, the capital city of Guyana, I was seconded to this terrible place. I had spent weeks at sea, crossing the Atlantic from Le Havre to New York, then South to Barbados and the West Indies.

Three more hours of sailing. I had been looking forward to having solid ground beneath my feet at last. Most traveling consists of waiting, either to depart or arrive and so it was with a mixture of horror and relief that I walked the gangplank and I finally set foot on Devil’s Island.

November 24th, 1877.

It’s a Saturday, but after so long at sea the day of the week does not seem to matter anymore. I spent a reasonable first night in the barracks before I was summoned to the Governor’s office.

‘Do you know why you are here Sergeant? It is because the unfortunates you will meet in this establishment, if they are released, will arrive first in Cayenne. Time spent here educates as to the animal nature inside the man. You will have that to contend with daily.

‘Give no quarter and watch your back. Dismissed.’

That was my sole audience with the man at the helm of this hell hole. Lieutenant Lecas assured me it was the standard speech, then he took me on a tour of the main island, for this is an archipelago of France’s shame, with monsters segregated by rapid waters and dangerous currents.

This main island was monitored by men meting out cruel and brutal discipline in order to maintain a cowed criminal population. The prisoners shied away from us as the lieutenant and I approached. Lecas’ baton found a random mark as it suited him.

‘The slower they learn the more it hurts them,’ he said, ‘but give them but a half chance and they will cut your heart out.’

Another standard speech I would guess. All men have their stories, their ways of explaining their world. This diary is mine.

November 25th, 1877

In my experience there are two kinds of card player. There are those who believe it is all in the hands of the Gods, that Lady Fortune lets them win or lose according to her whim. Then there are the rest of us, who never trust anything to blind luck. We know where the skill lies in prediction, in reading the reactions of other players, in knowing when to stop.

I spent many hours on the voyage here playing poker. Not so much that I could get a reputation. Sometimes I would play to lose. It’s not wise to play against men who prefer the bottle to a game, or the desperate. Both types were well represented on board, heading for a new life in Louisiana or Canada, expecting the New World to make their lives work for them.

Now I am in the barracks on Devil’s Island and there is little else in the way of entertainment, and every man has a poker face par excellence. Not that they are a dull and expressionless lot. At the dining hall there is always chatter, but at the card table there is professional competition. Lady Fortune will likely never be a visitor to this God forsaken place.

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SJ Carpenter

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