Seventeen
ships, nigh fifteen hundred men of Europe, swinging
with the tide before the land we were to make Spanish.
The watch raised a cry. Springing from his bed Juan Lepe
came on deck to find there confusion, and under the moon
in the clear water, swimming forms, swimming from us
in a kind of desperate haste and strength. There was shouting
to man the boat. One jostling against me cried that
they were the captive Indians. They had broken bonds,
lifted hatch, knocked down the watch, leaped over side.
Another shouted. No, the Caribs were safe. These were
the women--
The women--seven forms might be made out--were
not far from land. I felt tingling across to me their hope
and fear. Out of ship shadow shot after them our boat.
Strongly rowed, it seemed to gain, but they made speed
strongly, strongly. The boat got into trouble with the
shallows. The swimmers now stood and ran, now were
racers; in a moment they would touch the dry, the shining
beach. Out of boat sprang men running after them, running
across low white lines of foam. The women, that
strong woman cacique ahead, left water, raced across sand
toward forest. Two men were gaining, they caught at the
least swift woman. The dark, naked form broke from
them, leaped like a hurt deer and running at speed passed
with all into the ebony band that was forest.
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