Papillon by Henri Charrière

I returned to the islands, handcuffed to a Polack named Dandosky. For two premeditated murders he'd got five years. I'd got eight.

There were sixteen of us, twelve condemned to solitary. The sea was very rough and the deck was often swept by huge waves. My despair was so deep I practically hoped the tub would sink. Absorbed in my fate, I talked to no one. The cold spray stung my face, the wind took my hat. So what! I wouldn't need it much for my eight years in solitary. At first I had hoped we'd all drown; now I took a different view: Bébert Celier was eaten by sharks; I am thirty and have only eight years to go. But can I survive eight years within the walls of la mangeuse d'hommes?