“What’s a Carib?” Johnny asked. “Some sort of native fruit?”
“No,” smiled Hardgrave, “they’re men. Real men, too. Indians. Columbus called them the sturdiest, most warlike men of America. They’ve been that ever since. They’ve mixed with the whites and the blacks, but they’ve never lost their language nor their courage, either. They are supposed to have been head-hunters at one time or another, though that can’t be proven. They’re the bravest sailors, the most daring hunters of our coast; the best workers, too, and if they enter into a contract they’re mighty likely to go through with it. What’s more, they hate Daego. He’s cheated and underpaid them. There’s not one that will work for him. Yes, you want Caribs.
“And son,” the man leaned forward eagerly, “you’re in luck for once! There’s two boat loads of them over from Stann Creek now. You’d better see them. They’ll be down at the storeroom of the Tidewater Company.”
“I’ll go see them,” said Johnny. “What’s the best time?”
“Along about sunset.”
“I’ll be there.”
“You should.”
They parted at the gate. Johnny went to the market and bought the ham of a young peccary (wild pig) and took it to the hotel to be baked for a late supper. After that he sat for a full hour under the shade of a cohune-nut tree, thinking—thinking hard about many things, of the little brown girl who had appeared in the path by his camp in the night, and of Daego’s dark boats that passed in the night.
Just at dusk Johnny met Hardgrave at the bridge, and together they walked in silence toward the Tidewater storeroom.
As they approached the door they caught the sound of laughter. To Johnny’s well-trained ears there came old familiar sounds, a quick shuffle of feet, the slap-slap of leather.