230 I N A G U A 



land crabs on Inagua, in addition to the ubiquitous hermit 

 crabs— small purple crustaceans about as big in body as a 

 clenched fist and big yellow fellows with tremendous saffron 

 claws. I had seen them miles from the seashore, as far back as 

 the borders of the great central lake where they rambled about 

 the tangled thorn glades and the barren savannahs seeking the 

 twigs and bits of green vegetation on which they feed. But 

 they had not been visible for a long time— ever since the period 

 of high wind when I burned the wreck of the Basilisk. No rain 

 had fallen for weeks in succession and the crabs wxre keeping 

 close to their holes, sleeping away the hours in drowsy somno- 

 lence. Back in the interior it had become very dry and the 

 mud had split in jagged cracks and the dust rose as one walked. 



Strange that they should be there on the beach. I looked 

 again. In a continual stream they were pouring out of the 

 bushes and sliding down to the sea. There must have been 

 hundreds of them; and there was an air about them of some- 

 thing very important; something that would not be brooked. 

 Even when I jumped to my feet and strode up the sand they 

 did not pause but merely scrambled to one side and continued 

 down to the surf. 



Then I remembered. 



Far back in the hinterland of the island, miles away, it had 

 rained that day, a downpouring drenching tropical rain that 

 filled the dry salinas to overflowing and flooded the hollows. 

 The rain had lasted for several hours and had turned the 

 feathery dust into slimy slippery mud. The drops had not 

 ceased until just before sunset and the slanting rays of the 

 sinking sun had flared into the sky, making a long arched rain- 

 bow which stood out vividly against the dark mass of clouds 

 behind. This rain then was what the crabs had been waiting 

 for, hidden deep in the cavities of their holes. And when the 

 precious water came down, wetting their bodies and turning 



