Chapter Text
Often, before his captivity, Dantès’ mind had revolted at the idea of assemblages of prisoners, made up of thieves, vagabonds, and murderers. He now wished to be amongst them, in order to see some other face besides that of his jailer; he sighed for the galleys, with the infamous costume, the chain, and the brand on the shoulder. The galley-slaves breathed the fresh air of heaven, and saw each other. They were very happy.
- Count of Monte Cristo
Alexander Dumas peré and Auguste Maquet
It was nearing 11:30 in the morning as the Pharaon skirted the rolling hills of the Saint-Mandrier peninsula. Beyond it, Edmond could see the harbor of Toulon, framed by the Musée Balaguier, the Fort de l’Éguillette, and the La Tour Royale guarding the entrance. The city itself was obscured behind the mass of dark wooden ships and white stone buildings, but he could see the Toulon Mountains behind the city, decorated with their pine forests and steep limestone cliffs and whose ridge line was dominated by the grand Mont Faron.
Even at only sixteen years of age, Edmond Dantès had sailed vast distances in the employ of Monsieur Pierre Morrel, a merchant based in the nearby city of Marseille. He had seen enough harbors to know that Toulon’s was particularly well-guarded by the land around it, and that, in his rather uneducated opinion, it was a strong choice for France’s naval stronghold on the southern coast. However, this knowledge did not quell the uneasy feeling that had been growing in him since that morning.
“Are you watching, young Dantès?” de Vimeur, the first mate of the Pharaon inquired.
Edmond, who had been standing at attention behind and to the right of the mate for some time, nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“Good. We don’t come to Toulon often on account of its closeness to Marseille, but on occasion we do. It can be a challenging port to work with because of all the naval activity. Jacquet—” he motioned towards the older man steering the ship with a tilt of his head. “—Is quite experienced in this port, though. You can direct questions to him.”
“That’s right, sir,” Jacquet said with an odd intonation in his voice. He was a man just starting his sixth decade and who seemed to enjoy nothing more than the clean, refreshing air far out to sea. “Spent eight years of my life there, I did. Might make myself scarce once we dock, though.”
“It is not a welcome place, then? I have heard whispers from the crew, but I never inquired as to why.” asked Edmond, the unease growing.
“Not to me it ain’t. I’ll do my job, though, I will. Jacquet always does.”
“He does indeed,” confirmed de Vimeur with a small smile. “I trust I do not need to watch over you, Jacquet?”
“Not at all, sir. I will get us there safe and sound, I will.”
A small and pleasant smile came to de Vimeur’s face. “Rightly so. Come, Dantès.”
Edmond followed the mate towards the prow of the ship.
Jean-Denis de Vimeur had been serving under Captain Leclère as the first mate for nearly five years, and he had taken fondly to Edmond when he had started sailing for Monsieur Morrel as a cabin boy at twelve.
Edmond had quickly risen through the ranks. The sea was as natural as land to him, and he could feel the ship underneath him much in the way a talented horseman could his mount. He had been appointed to an ordinary seaman just one month before his fourteenth birthday and to an able seaman but three months into his sixteenth year1.
Now that the second mate, Aimé Marceau, was scheduled to leave his post as the conclusion of the voyage, there had been talk amongst the crew that Edmond was to be promoted again. This had always seemed somewhat odd to him, for while he was willing to admit that he was, perhaps, talented beyond his years, there had been sailors on the Pharaon and in service of Monsieur Morrel for far longer than he. It made little sense to him that he should be promoted before them, but the crew seemed to adore the potential of his promotion.
He knew not what he had specifically done to win such respect from the crew. Even as just a senior seaman, they seemed to listen to him as well as they did to de Vimeur or even Marceau! Edmond, however, was prudent, and he did his best to neither dwell on it nor allow it to go to his head. If they respected him, then it was his duty to honor their respect by remaining worthy of it.
De Vimeur stopped just forward of the fore mast while Marceau ran about giving orders to the seamen. “Now, I would like to follow Marceau around, if you will, but first I must give you a word of warning.”
Edmond cocked his head but voiced no reply as he met his superior’s eyes.
“Have you been to this port before?”
“Twice, monsieur, but I was much younger, and I believe the captain had me and the other cabin boy help the cook in the kitchen.”
“Well, I believe you are now old enough to brave these docks. Do you see those buildings with the demasted ships on the east side of the port?”
“I do, sir.”
“Keen eyes as always, Dantès,” the first mate remarked fondly before pulling out his spy glass and passing it to Edmond. “What do you see?”
Edmond placed the spy glass to his eye and looked.
It was a strange sight. He could easily identify the naval part of the port. As a sailor, he knew the ships of the French Navy well, and gunships did tend to have a rather different appearance than merchant vessels. There were a number of dry-docks where new naval ships were being constructed, what appeared to be an armory, and other buildings one might typically find in such a port. However, he did note a rather strange series of buildings and ships on one side of the harbor.
These two- or three-story buildings were constructed of the same white limestone as the other structures along the harbor, but they were built on an odd, snake-like island that jutted out from the mainland. Around this quay were twelve ships of the line which had been demasted and appeared to have been gutted from the inside. Each of the gunports had a thick, iron-grating on it that barred a clear view of inside.
All about this portion of the port trudged men clad in red smocks and yellow pants. Many of them had red caps atop their heads, but some had green. Edmond noted that most of the men seemed to travel in pairs. Blue-clad officers seemed to escort these men everywhere.
As he continued to think on this odd sight, he thought to look upon the rest of the port and was somewhat surprised to see hordes of these red-dressed men spread throughout the docks. There must have been thousands of them!
Edmond lowered the spyglass. “That is a peculiar sight,” he remarked.
De Vimeur nodded. “That is the Bagne de Toulon, young Edmond. It is a place for only the most hardened of criminals. I think you can imagine Leclère’s hesitance in having boys about the ship when the forçats come to load and offload cargo.”
“The captain is considerate to think of such.”
“And I would argue the same, but if you’re to be—well, you’re old enough to assist with the process. The less time we spend here, the better. I sailed out of Brest when I was in the navy before moving back home to Marseille, and—” the first mate shivered. “—bagnards are more animals than men. Some, like Jacquet, can come out of it and recover that lost humanity, but most will end up back in there sooner or later.”
“Wait, Jacquet?” Edmond frowned. “He came from a bagne?”
“He did, spent eight years right over there. I admit that I was against him signing with the crew initially, but Captain Leclére and Monsieur Morrel were adamant. I think that was a year or two before you started with us.” De Vimeur sighed. “They were right, of course. Taught me a thing or two, they did. Jacquet’s a decent man, just fell on hard times.”
As the Pharaon sailed closer to the port, Edmond regarded the bagne once again. “What’s it like there?”
“Hm? Oh, I wouldn’t know. We were stationed near the bagne at Brest, not in it,” de Vimeur chuckled. “I suppose you could ask Jacquet, but you best bring him quite a bit of alcohol before you do. Now, get to it. Go shadow Marceau, and you can make yourself useful once we dock.”
***
Jean Valjean rested on his inclined plank of wood in the salle with his red cap pulled over his eyes. Even though it was only early April, it felt as though it could have been August. His entire body was still coated in a layer of sweat, even after a period of rest.
He frowned as his stomach rumbled.
In some regards, Valjean thought himself somewhat fortunate. He was known for being formidable; his strength was legendary. While he did not often throw his weight around, so to speak, he most certainly did take advantage of being one of the first to get to the communal pots of food during meals. It was easy to justify for him; while he was of average height, he was unusually broad of shoulders. He simply needed more food than most of the other convicts did, especially the stringy and more feeble ones like his chainmate, Chenildieu.
That had not worked out for him today.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Valjean deepened his frown and readjusted his position. The hard wood of his sleeping platform had ceased bothering him well-over a decade ago, but today, he found it particularly hard to be comfortable on it. He and the rest of his work crew—called an escoude—had been hauling supplies on and off ships at the part of the harbor furthest from the bagne. When the prison’s cannons had gone off to signify the noon hour of repose, it had taken them nearly twenty minutes just to get back to the prison itself.
The unseasonable heat had gotten to him, and he had found that his temper had grown similarly hot as well. When the escoude had reached the bridge that led to the Île du bagne,2 it appeared that a rather large forçat that Valjean had not known—which was unsurprising considering he did not bother himself with introductions—had collapsed on the bridge. This had led to a bit of a delay in him entering the prison to retrieve his lunch.
A set of chainmates under the command of one of the gardes-chiourme3 were doing their best to move the man, and their sluggish efforts set Valjean’s pot to boiling. He shoved through the convicts that separated him from the bridge, ignoring the orders of a guard behind him. Chenildieu trailed behind him like an apologetic kite.
One of the convicts holding the large, unconscious man stumbled as he left the bridge, and both he and his charge tumbled to the ground. At that moment, Valjean arrived and, looking upon the two men who had so slowly removed their companion with disdain, hefted the unconscious man onto his shoulder and deposited him ten yards from the bridge. He gestured for the two original convicts to continue their work before turning towards his salle to procure his lunch.
Evidently, this was a poor choice.
A few moments later, Chenildieu made a brief sound of warning before Valjean made the acquaintance of two separate batons as two of the surveillants4 made it quite known to him that his actions were considered unsatisfactory. His chainmate was spared this treatment, though he did stand off to the side as far away as the shared chain would allow him to be and winced at each blow.
When Valjean was finally allowed to rise from the beating, he was informed that he would now be taking the injured man to the hospital and would be last to receive his food in the salle. This, of course, meant that there would be nothing left for him save a chunk of bread and whatever bean stew remained on the sides of the large pot.
Thus, his mood had continued to sour, and while he had only been able to rest for some fifteen minutes, Valjean knew that it would soon enough be time to return to work.
He did what he could to ignore the new bruises welting up all over his body. Nothing was broken irreparably—the gourganes5 would have to try harder than that to best him—but one side of his chest hurt particularly badly every time he breathed.
It was not the end of the world. He would survive.
Upon his reflection of the events as he laid on that wooden plank, he determined that there was something strange about the whole thing. He knew that his anger was responsible when he took such impulsive actions. He had known that for a while. However, he had long ago decided that his anger was far more beneficial that it was detrimental. It allowed him to push further and harder than those around him and to endure what others could not.
The world had damned him for his compassion, and he had damned it in return. If he was not worthy of its kindness, then the world would not get his in return.
It was a miserable existence, but it had meant that after sixteen years of hell, he was still alive.
He paused thinking for a second to rub the painful side of his chest and found it to be swelling noticeably underneath his red casaque6. He deepened his perpetual frown and let out a rather prolonged sigh, ignoring the spike of pain from his bruised chest.
“You’re just delightful today, you know that?” Chenildieu snapped. “Can we please keep this afternoon’s spiteful activities to a minimum? I would actually like to eat a full supper today.”
“Fuck off.”
“Right, yes. I will fuck right off, then. I will, however, consider that a ‘yes’ on your behalf.”
A few moments later, a cannon sounded elsewhere in the prison to signify the end of the noon respite.
Valjean was unfazed by the sudden sound and simply dragged himself off of his tollard. Chenildieu, however, leapt several inches in the air from where he sat like a cat at the sound. Even after nearly two years, he remained as jumpy as ever.
The two chainmates stood and left the salle, falling into step with the rest of their comrades. As they left, one of the guards that Valjean had the displeasure of being familiar with fel into step beside to them.
“24601,” a deep voice said. It belonged to a man perhaps ten years Valjean’s junior and who was somewhat notable among the gardes-chiourme for his warm, brown skin tone and dark brown hair that he kept in a neat and precise pony tail. “I expect that you won’t cause more trouble today.”
Not fearing further reproach, Valjean simply glared at the guard sidelong for a moment before continuing to drag himself forward. Chenildieu had still not picked up the chain between them, but Valjean knew that he would. He always did.
The guard laughed. It was a cold, heartless thing that sounded more akin to the barking laughter of the convict than it did the chuckle of a free man. “You’re lucky that Monsieur Dupont is not surprising your crew today. I will tolerate such attitude only once. Consider this your warning.”
Valjean simply directed his glare ahead of him and continued to walk.
“I expect a response,” the guard said curtly.
Chewing on his lip and feeling a well of anger springing forth within him, Valjean choked out his response. “Yes, Monsieur l’Adjudant Surveillant Javert.”
“Carry on, 24601,” Javert said before slowing his pace and falling back towards the end of the marching forçats.
“Merde,” Chenildieu whispered, finally leaning down to pick up the chain dragging between him and his chainmate. “What a positively priggish individual he is.”
Valjean did not know what that word meant, but he grunted in agreement anyway.
FOOTNOTES:
1 I say “sixteenth year” here to mean that he was fifteen at the time. After all, once you turn one, you are in your second year. return to text ↩
2 The bagne was build on a man-made, snake-like island that stretched around the Darse vieille (old harbor basin) and the Darse neuve (new harbor basin). There was a bridge that connected this island to land which appears to have been removable. return to text ↩
3 The formal name for a member of the prison guards. The garde or gardes (plural) managed the prison population which, as a whole, was known as the chiourme. return to text ↩
4 Another term for a guard. return to text ↩
5 A perjorative argot term for a guard of the bagne penal colonies in Brest, Rochefort, and Toulon. Literally, this word means “beans” in Provençal, as the guards were seen to be the ones responsible for the miserable rations of bean stew. return to text ↩
6 A classic and symbolic red jacket given to men sentenced to forced labor. While the modern version of this term would be ‘cassock’, the casaque had no relation to religious wear at the time. It’s name was carried over from when the clothing was much more cassock-like, and like much of the terms in the bagne, they continued to be used even once they were no longer accurate to the dictionary definition. return to text ↩