As his eyes swept the deck they lighted with a sudden new joy. They had fallen upon a figure garbed in a dress of gorgeous golden yellow. The one white girl of the company, the queen of all the Stann Creek region, had not deserted them. There, on a coil of rope beside her patriarchal grandfather, sat Madge Kennedy, smiling her very best.
“It’s great! Great!” Johnny murmured. “And yet—”
His brow clouded. There was to be a fight. The thing seemed inevitable. It would be a bloody battle. He knew well enough what these battles between Caribs and half-castes meant. Once, on the far reaches of the Rio Hondo, he had witnessed such a battle. It had been a rather terrible affair. As he closed his eyes now he heard the thwack of mahogany clubs on unprotected heads, caught the swish of great swinging knives, saw the agony of hatred and fear on dark faces where blood ran free.
“I said then I hoped I’d never see another such battle,” he told himself, “and yet here we are driving straight on toward one that promises to be quite as terrible.”
Before him, sitting astride the rail, was a Carib youth. “Can’t be over eighteen,” Johnny mused.
He had never in his life seen a more cheerful, smiling face. To look at him, to catch the glint of his eye, the gleam of his white teeth, to see the rollicking movement of his face, was like viewing a wonderful waterfall against a glorious sunset.
Could it be that before this day was done that glorious face might be still in death?
For a moment Johnny felt like turning back. What was success, even success in a righteous cause, when it must be purchased at such a cost?
“And yet,” he reasoned, “we cannot turn back. The right must be defended. It must always be so. Perhaps there is a way to avert it, but come what may, we must go on.”
Having arrived at this conclusion, he walked quietly down the deck to take his place beside Donald Kennedy and his granddaughter.