175 The pearl of the antilks? 



At dawn the breeze was from the east, off the cane hills and the 

 rugged slopes of Sierra Maestra. There was a little sea running 

 and the breeze appeared to be picking up. In the gray light all 

 faces, except that of the ruddy fisherman, looked peaked and un- 

 happy, especially that of el capitdn. Not a word was spoken. What 

 a contrast, I thought, with last night! But then, that was bromista, 

 fun and frolic, while this was the serious business of life. The most 

 serious. Naturally, there is a difference in one's deportment. 



With sunup, the breeze increased and we were dipping our 

 narrow bow under. Spray was coming aboard with every pitch 

 and once a few tubfuls of cold green water. Drenched to his hide 

 but still every inch a captain chasing contrabanders, our com- 

 mander gruffly ordered the craft's speed reduced. We now wal- 

 lowed along at an erratic 4 knots, the coast dropping out of sight 

 and only a broad expanse of sea and a few distant cayos to be 

 seen. The marinero, meanwhile, had loosened the flap of his hol- 

 ster (he was the only man aboard who was armed with anything 

 more dangerous than a fountain pen), and was anxiously scanning 

 the horizon. He had an old pair of low-power glasses on a string 

 around his neck and every now and then he would sweep the rim 

 of the sea with them. They were nothing more than opera glasses 

 and he couldn't have seen much through them, the boat pitching 

 and rolling as she was, but he stuck at it, as determined as Drake 

 before Cadiz. 



The fisherman, who knew what we were looking for, of course, 

 and who seemed to have become infected with the excitement of 

 the chase, sang out all of a sudden and pointed off across the water. 

 The marinero stuck his glasses to his head, Arturo opened his 

 eyes and looked about him, and el capitdn, rousing himself with 

 an effort, stood in the swaying craft as if coming to attention 

 before the admiral. "Barca! Barca!" the fisherman was yelling. 

 Everyone began shouting questions at the marinero, who kept on 

 looking. I had a good pair of navy-style binoculars with me, ex- 

 pressly for magnifying the image of any flamingos I came across, 

 but if this was a contraband vessel I might as well magnify its 

 image too. So I got them out and looked carefully at the object 

 that could be dimly seen off the starboard bow. "Why," I said, 



