The  air  is  full  of  black  bits  of  cane  leaves,  the  sun  is  obscured  by  the
grayish-brown  smoke  which  envelops  all  the  struggling,  shouting  multi-
tude and  covers  the  field  with  an  immense  pall.  A  gust  of  wind  sends
the  flames  jumping  to  another  plot,  whirlwinds  caused  by  the  heat  catch


82  ROAMING  THROUGH  THE  WEST  INDIES

up  the  sparks  and  scatter  them  at  random.  New-comers  join  in  the
turmoil,  indifferent  alike  to  their  garments  and  their  skins.  Half-
asphyxiated  men  stumble  out  to  the  open  air,  gasp  a  few  lungsful  of  it,
and  dash  back  into  the  fray;  the  now  immense  column  of  smoke  can
be  seen  over  half  the  province.  The  pungent  scent  of  crude  sugar
ladens  all  the  air.  Bit  by  bit  the  leaping  flames  decrease  under  the
chastisement  of  hundreds  of  weapons,  or  confess  their  inability  to  leap
across  a  wider  guardaraya.  The  crackling  loses  its  ominous  sound,  the
voices  of  men  are  heard  more  clearly  above  it,  gradually  it  succumbs
to  the  noise  of  threshing  bushes,  the  last  red  glare  dies  out,  and  the
struggle  is  over.  The  motley  throng  of  fighters,  smeared,  smudged,
and  torn,  emerge  into  the  open  lanes,  toss  away  their  improvised
weapons,  and  straggle  homeward  in  long  streams,  while  sunset  paints
the  now  distant  smoke-cloud  with  brilliant  colors,  flecked  by  the  little
black  particles  which  still  float  in  the  air.  The  burning  of  a  cane-field
does  not  mean  the  complete  loss  of  its  crop.  Only  the  leaves  are  con-
sumed ;  the  parched  canes  are  still  standing.  But  these  must  be  cut  and
ground  quickly  if  their  juice  is  to  be  turned  into  sugar;  the  ringing  of
the  heavy  cane-knives  resounds  all  through  the  following  day,  and  by
night  the  field  stands  forlorn  and  ugly  in  its  nudity.
