16 The Palm Porch (1925 New Negro Version) – Side-By-Side Comparison

From The New Negro (1925)

From Tropic Death (1926)

NOBODY had ever heard of Miss Buckner before she swept into The Palm Porch. The Palm Porch was not a cantine; it was a house. Still, one was not sure of that, either; for a house, assuredly, is a place where people live. But Miss Buckner did not only live there: She had cut up the house in small, single rooms, each in separate and distinct entities. Each had its armor of leafy laces, its hangings of mauve and cream-gold; each its loadstones and daggers; its glowing dust and scarlet. Each its wine and music, powders and mirrors.

I

BELOW, a rock engine was crushing stone, shooting up rivers of steam and signaling the frontier’s rebirth. Opposite, there was proof, a noisy, swaggering sort of proof, of the gradual death and destruction of the frontier post. Black men behind wheelbarrows slowly ascended a rising made of spliced boards and emptied the sand rock into the maw of a mixing machine. More black men, a peg down, behind wheelbarrows, formed a line which caught the mortar pouring into the rear organ of the omnivorous monster.

High against the sky, on slender, ant-proof poles, The Palm Porch looked down upon the squalid cosmos of Colon. Facing north—a broad expanse of red, arid land.

“All, all gone,” cried Miss Buckner, and the girls at her side shuddered. All quietly felt the sterile menace of it. There, facing its misery, tears came to Miss Buckner’s eyes and a jeweled, half-white hand, lifted gently to give a paltry vision of the immensity of it.

“All of that,” she sighed, “all of that was swamp–when I came to the Isthmus. All.” A gang of “taw”-pitching boys, sons of the dusky folk seeping up from Caribbean isles, who had first painted Hudson Alley and “G” Street a dense black, and were now spreading up to the Point–swarmed to a spot in the road which the stone crusher had been especially cruel to, and drew a marble ring. Contemptibly pointing to them, Miss Buckner observed, “a year ago that would have been impossible. I can’t understand what the world is coming to.” Gazing at one another the girls were not tempted to speak, but were a bit bewildered, at this show of grossness on their mother’s part. And anyway, it was noon, and they wanted to go to sleep.

But a light, flashed on a virgin past, burst on Miss Buckner, and she became reminiscent. …

. . . . . . .

Before the Revolution it was a black, evil forest-swamp. Deer, lions, mongooses and tiger cats went prowling through it. Then the Americans came . . . came with saw and spear, tar and lysol. About to rid it … molten city … of its cancer, fire swept it up on the bosom of the lagoon. Naked, virgin trees; limbless. Gaunt, hollow stalks. Huge shadows falling. Dredges in the golden mist; dredges on the lagoon. Horny iron pipes spouted over the fetid swamp. Noise; grating noise. Earth stones, up from the bowels of the sea, rattled against the ribs of scaly pipes like popping corn. Crackling corn. Water, red, black, gray, gushed out of big, bursting pipes. For miles people heard its lap-lapping. Dark as the earth, it flung up on its crest stones, pearls, sharks’ teeth … jewels of the sunken sea. Frogs, vermin, tangled things. …

It browned into a lake of dazzling corals. Slowly the sun began to sop, harden, dry it up. Upon its surface, buoying it, old tree stumps; guava, pine. On them snipes flew. Wild geese came low, dipping up an earth-burned sprat. Off again. River stakes. Venturing to explore it enterprising kids would slip through … plop … go down … seized by the intense suction. Ugly rescue work.

Dark dense thicket; water paving it. Deer, lions, tigers bounding through it. Centuries, perhaps, of such pure, free rule. Then some khaki-clad, red-faced and scrawny-necked whites deserted the Zone and brought saws to the roots of palmetto, spears to the bush cats and jaguars, lysol to the mosquitoes and flies and tar to the burning timber-swamp. A wild racing to meet the Chagres and explore the high reaches of the Panama jungle. After the torch, ashes and ghosts–bare, black stalks, pegless stumps, flakes of charred leaves and half-burnt tree trunks. Down by a stream watering a village of black French colonials, dredges began to work. More of the Zone pests, rubber-booted ones, tugged out huge iron pipes and safely laid them on the gutty bosom of the swamp. Congeries of them. Then one windy night the dredges began a moaning noise. It was the sea groaning and vomiting. Through the throat of the pipes it rattled, and spat stones–gold and emerald and amethyst. All sorts of juice the sea upheaved. It dug deep down, too, far into the recesses of its sprawling cosmos. Back to a pre-geologic age it delved, and brought up things.

In time it gave in to the insistence of the sun. White and golden; husks shone upon it. Shells; half-shells. It cut, dazed and dazzled you. Queer things, half-seen, on the dry, salty earth. Ghastly white bones; skulls, ear-rings, bangles. Scrambling. Rows. Sea scum fought and slew each other over them.

Down by the mouth of a creole stream the dredges worked. Black in the golden mist, black on the lagoon.

As time went on it became a bare, vivid plain. City’d soon spring upon it. Of a Sunday blacks would skip over to the beach to bathe or pick cocoanuts on the banks of the lagoon. On the lagoon … a slaughter house and a wireless station. Squeaking down at the flat, low city. Pigs being stuck, the unseeing hoofs of cattle … the wireless . . .

tang ta-tang, tang ta-tang

stole out of the meridian dusk.

With the aftermath there came a dazzling array of corals and jewels–jewels of the griping sea. Magically the sun hardened and whitened it. Sandwhite. Brown. Golden. Dross surged up; guava stumps, pine stumps, earth-burned sprats, river stakes. But the crab shell–sea crabs, pink and crimson–the sharks’ teeth, blue, and black, and purple ones–the pearls, and glimmering stones–shone brightly.

Upon the lake of sea-earth, dusk swept a mantle of majestic coloring.

Upon the lake of jeweled earth dusk swept a mantle of hazy blue.

East of The Palm Porch, roared the city of Colon. Hudson Alley, “G” Street … coolies, natives, Island blacks swarming to the Canal. All about, nothing but tenements … city word for cabins … low, soggy, toppling.

II

“W’en yo’ fadah wake up in de mawnin’ time wid’ ‘im marinah stiff out in front o’ him–“

“Mek fun,” said Miss Buckner, rising regally, “an’ be a dam set o’ fools all yo’ life.” She buried the butt in a Mexican urn, and strode by Anesta sprawling half-robed on the matted floor. “Move, gal, an’ le’ me go out dey an’ show dis black sow how we want ‘ar fi’ stew de gunga peas an’ fowl.”

Near the sky rose the Ant’s Nest. Six stories high and it took up half a city block. One rickety staircase … in the rear. No two of its rooms connected. Each sheltered a family of eight or nine. A balcony ringed each floor. Rooms … each room … opened out upon it. Only one person at a time dared walk along any point of it. The cages of voiceless yellow birds adorned each window. Boards were stretched at the bottom of doors to stop kids from wandering out … to the piazza below. Flower-pots … fern, mint, thyme, parsley, water cress … sat on the scum-moist sills of the balconies.

“Oh, me don’t wan’ fi’ go to no pahty,” yawned Hyacinth, fingering the pages of a boudoir textbook left her one evening by an Italian sea captain, “me too tiad, sah.”

“An’ me can’t see how de hell me gwine mek up to any man if me got fi’ fling in him face a old blue shif’ me did got las’ week. W’en is Scipio gwine bring me dat shawl him pramise fi’ giv’ me?”

Over the hot, low city the Ant’s Nest lorded it. Reared its mouth to the heavens. Sneered truculently at it. Offensive, muggy, habitation made it giddy, bilious. Swarms of black folk populated it. …

“Me no fond ha-tall o’ any ‘Panish man,” cried Anesta, “an’ me don’t see how me can–“

Sorry lot. Tugging at the apron strings of life, scabrous, sore-footed natives, spouting saliva into unisolated cisterns. Naked on the floors Chinese rum shops and chow-stands. Nigger-loving Chinks unmoved and unafraid of the consequences of a breed of untarnished … seemingly … Asiatics growing up around the breasts of West Indian maidens. Pious English peasant blacks … perforating the picture … going to church, to lodge meetings, to hear fiery orations.

Miss Buckner swung around, struck. “Yo’ t’ink so, he, his dat wha’ yo’ t’ink? Well, yo’ bess mek up unna mind–all o’ unna! Well, wha’ a bunch o’ lazy ongrateful bitches de whole carload of unna is, dough he?”

Suddenly she broke off, anger seaming her brow. “Unna don’t know me his hindebted to him, no? Unna don’t know dat hif hit wasn’t farrim a lot o’ t’ings wha’ go awn up yah, would be street property long ago–an’ some o’ we yo’ see spo’tin’ roun’ yah would be some way else, an’ diffrant altogaddah.”

Ant’s Nest. On one hand the Ant’s Nest. On the other, the sand-gilt lake. In this fashion it was not an unexpected rarity to find The Palm Porch prospering. Austerely entrenched, the rooms on the ground floor went to a one-eyed baboo and a Panama witch doctor. Gates at the top of the stairs kept intruders off. A wolf hound insured the logic of the precaution.

“Ah know not me.”

“Ah know Oi ain’t owe nobody nothin’–“

“Yo’ think yo’ don’t! But don’t fool yourselves, children, there is more to make the mare go than you think–I see that now.”

She busied herself gathering up glasses, flouncing off to the party.

Around the porch Miss Buckner had unsheathed a strip of bright enamel cloth. From a man’s waist it rose to the roof. It was beyond reason for anyone to peep up from the piazza and see what was taking place up there. Of course there were iron bars below the white screen, but Miss Buckner had covered these with crates of fern and violets strung along it. In addition, Miss Buckner had not been without an eye to a certain tropical exactness.

The Palm Porch was not a canteen, it was a house. But it was a house of lavish self-containment. It was split up in rooms, following a style of architecture which was the flair of the Isthmian realtors, and each room opened out on the porch. Each had, too, an armor of leafy laces; shining dust and scarlet. Each had its wine and decanters, music and song.

About Miss Buckner the idea of surfeit … oxen hips, long, pliable hands, roving, sun-staring breasts … took on the magic of reality. Upon the yellow stalk of her being there shot up into mist and crystal space a head the shape of a sawed-off cocoanut tree top. Pressed close to its rim were tiny wrinkles … circles, circlets, half-circles … of black, crisp hair. It was even bobbed … an unheard of proceeding among the Victorian maidens of the Indian tropics. Unheard of, indeed.

On the squalid world of Colon it was privileged to gaze with hauteur, for Miss Buckner, the owner of the Palm Porch, was a lady of poise, charm and caution. Up around the ribs of the porch she had put a strip of canvas cloth. It shut out eyes effectively. Glancing up, one saw boxes of rosebush and flower vines, but beyond that–nothing. The porch’s green paint, the opulent flower pots and growing plants helped to plaster on it the illusion of the tropical jungle.

Further to confound the canaille a heretical part slid down the front of it. Strangely anti-sexual, it helped, too, to create a brightly sodden air about Miss Buckner in the ramified circles in which she set her being.

There clung to Miss Buckner an idea of sober reality. Her  hips were full, her hands long, hairy, unfeminine, her breasts dangling. She was fully seven feet tall and had a small, round head. Her hair was close to it—black, curly. Courageously she had bobbed and parted it at a time when it was unseasonable to do so, and yet retain a semblance of respect among the Victorian dames of the Spanish tropics.

Urged on by the ruthless, crushing spirit which was firmly and innately a part of her, Miss Buckner, consciously unaware of the capers she was cutting amid the synthetic hordes … black, brown, yellow folk … had, perhaps, a right to insist on such things as a frizzly head of hair. Perhaps to her it was a trivial item of concern–to her and her only. And, by way of sprucing up lagging ends in her native endowments, items such as wavy, sylvan tresses, or a slim, pretty figure, Miss Buckner had an approach to one … life … that was simply excruciating. Where, oh! where, folk asked, did she acquire it? London … Paris … Vienna? No! In reality Miss Buckner, a dame of sixty–it was the first time that she had deserted the isle of her birth in an animated raffle across the sea,–would have fallen ill at the very suggestion of having to go to Europe or anywhere in fact beyond the crimson rim of Jamaica in quest of manners. Absurd!

Urged on by the ruthless spirit which was a very firm part of her, Miss Buckner was not altogether unaware of the capers she was cutting amid the few beings she actually touched. Among the motley blacks and browns and yellows on the Isthmus, there would be talk–but how was it to drift back to her? Via Zuline? Shame! “Who me? Me talk grossip wit’ any sahvant gyrl, if yo’ t’ink so yo’ lie!” But the lack of an elfin figure and the possession of a frizzly head of hair, was more than made up for by Miss Buckner’s gift of manners.

“Gahd, wha’ she did got it, he?” folk asked; but neither London, nor Paris, nor Vienna answered. Indeed, Miss Buckner, a lady of sixty, would have been wordless at the idea of having to go beyond the dickty rim of Jamaica in quest of manners. It was absurd to think so. This drop to the Isthmus was Miss Buckner’s first gallop across the sea.

And so, like a bit of tape, this manner to Miss Buckner stuck. Upon women Miss Buckner had meager cause to ply it, for at The Palm Porch precious few women, except, of course, Zuline, her Surinam cook, and, of course, her five daughters, were ever allowed. It was a man’s house. When, as a result, Miss Buckner, beneath a brilliant lorgnette, condescended to look at a man, she looked sternly, unsmilingly down at him. When, of a Sabbath, Miss Buckner, hair in oily, overt frills, maidenly in a silken shawl of gold and blue, a dab of carmine on her mouth, decided to go to the mercado, followed by the slow, trepid steps of Zuline, to buy achi and Lucy-yam and cocoa-milk and red peas, she had half of the city gaping at the very wonder of her. Erratically, entirely in command of herself, Miss Buckner, by a word or gesture … quick, stabbing, petulant … would outbuy a deftly-enshrined Assyrian candymaker, the most abject West Indian fish dealer or the meekest native vendor of cebada. Colorful as a pheasant, she swept on, through the mist of crawling folk, the comely Zuline at her elbow, plying her with queries surely she did not expect her to possess enough virginity to answer. Dumping as she swept along vegetables, meats, spices in the bewildered girl’s basket. Her head high above the dusky mob, her voice, at best a thing of angel-colors, uncaught by the shreds of patois going by her.

And so, like sap to a rubber tree, Miss Buckner’s manner clung to her. Upon those of her sex she had slight cause to ply it, for at the Palm Porch few of them were allowed. Traditionally, it was a man’s house. When Miss Buckner, beneath a brilliant lorgnette, was gracious enough to look at a man, she looked, sternly, unsmilingly down at him. When of a Sabbath, her hair in oily frills, wearing a silken shawl of cream and red, a dab of  vermilion on her mouth, she swept regally down Bolivar Street on the way to the market, maided by the indolent Zuline, she had half of the city gaping at the animal wonder of her. Brief-worded, cool-headed, by a stabbing thrust or a petulant gesture, she’d confound any fish seller, any dealer in yampi or Lucy yam, cocoanut milk or red peas–and pass quietly on, untouched by the briny babel.

In fact, from Colon to Cocoa Grove, Miss Buckner, by the color-crazed folk who swam head-high in the bowl of luring life stirred by her, was a woman to tip one’s hat to–regal rite–a woman of taste, culture, value. Executives at Balboa, pilots on the locks, sun-burned sea folk attested to that. They gloried at the languor of Miss Buckner’s salon.

In fact, from Colon to Cocoa Grove the pale-faced folk who drank sumptuously in the bowl of life churned by her considered Miss Buckner a woman to tip one’s hat to–regal rite–a woman of taste and culture. Machinists at Balboa, engineers at Miraflores, sun-burned sea folk gladly testified to that fact. All had words of beauty for the ardor of Miss Buckner’s salon.

Of course, by words that came flashing like meteors out of Miss Buckner’s mouth, one got the impression that Miss Buckner would have liked to be white; but, alas! she was only a mulatto. No one had ever heard of her before she and her innocent darlings moved into The Palm Porch. Of course, it was to be expected, the world being what it is, that there were people who–De la Croix, a San Andres wine merchant, De Pass, a Berbice horse breeder–murmured words of treason: that, out of their roving lives they’d seen her at a certain Bar in Matches Lane stringing out from over a broad, clean counter words of rigid cheer to the colonizing English barque men … but such, too, were cast to the dogs to be devoured as expressions of useless and undocumented chatter. Whether the result of a union of white and Negro, French or Spanish, English or Maroon … no one knew. And her daughters, sculptural marvels of gold and yellow, were enshrined in a similar mystery. Of their father and their ascension to the luxury of one, the least heard, so far as the buzzing community was concerned, the better. And in the absence of data tongues began to wag. Norwegian bos’en. Jamaica lover … Island trumph. Crazy Kingston nights. … To the charming ladies in question, it was a subject of adoring indifference. Miss Buckner herself, who had a contempt for statistics, was a trifle hazy about the whole thing. … 

Of course one gathered from the words which came like blazing meteors out of her mouth that Miss Buckner would have liked to be white; but, alas! she was only a mulatto. No one had ever heard of her before she and her five daughters moved into the Palm Porch. It was to be expected, the world being what it is, that words of murmured treason would drift abroad. A wine merchant, Raymond de la Croix, and a Jamaica horse breeder, Walter de Paz, vowed they had seen her at an old seaman’s bar on Matches Lane serving ale and ofttimes more poetic things than ale to young blond-headed Britons who would especially go there. But De Paz and De la Croix were men of frustrated idealism, and their words, to Miss Buckner at least, brutal though they were, were swept aside as expressions of useless chatter. Whether she was the result of a union of white and black, French and Spanish, English and Maroon—no one knew. Of an equally mystical heritage were her daughters, creatures of a rich and shining beauty. Of their father the less said the better. And in the absence of data tongues began to wag. Norwegian bos’n. Jamaica lover—Island triumph. Crazy Kingston nights. To the lovely young ladies in question it was a subject to be religiously high-hatted and tabooed. The prudent Miss Buckner, who had a burning contempt for statistics, was a trifle hazy about the whole thing.

One of the girls, white as a white woman, eyes blue as a Viking maid’s, strangely, at sixteen, had eloped, much to Miss Buckner’s disgust, with a shiny-armed black who at one time had been sent to the Island jail for the proletarian crime of prædial larceny. Neighbors swore it was love at first sight. But it irked, piqued Miss Buckner. “It a dam‘ pity shame,” she had cried, between dabs at her already cologne-choked nose, “it a dams pity shame.”

One of the girls, white as a white woman, eyes blue as a Viking maid’s, had eloped, at sixteen, to Miss Buckner’s eternal disgust, with a shiny-armed black who had at one time been sent to the Island jail for the proletarian crime of prædial larceny. The neighbors swore it had been love at first sight. But it irked and maddened Miss Buckner. “It a dam pity shame,” she had cried, dabbing a cologned handkerchief to her nose, “it a dam pity shame.”

Another girl, the eldest of the lot (Miss Buckner had had seven in all), had oh! ages before given birth to a pretty, gray-eyed baby boy, when she was but seventeen, and, much to Miss Buckner’s disgrace, had later taken up with a willing young mulatto, a Christian in the Moravian church, and brutishly undertaken the burdens of concubinage. He was able, honest, industrious and wore shoes, but Miss Buckner nearly went mad–groaned at the pain her wayward daughters were bringing her. “Oh, Gahd,” she cried, “Oh, Gahd, dem ah send me to de dawgs … dem ah send me to de dawgs!” Clerk in the cold storage; sixty dollars a month … wages of an accursed “Silver” employee. Silver is nigger; nigger is silver. Nigger-silver … blah! Why, debated Miss Buckner, stockings couldn’t be bought with that, much more take care of a woman accustomed to “foxy clothes an’ such” and a dazzling baby boy. Silver employee! Why couldn’t he be a “Gold” employee … and get $125 a month, like “de fella nex’ tarrim, he?” He did not get coal and fuel free, besides. He had to dig down and pay extra for them. He was not, alas! white. And that hurt, worried Miss Buckner. Caused her nights of anxious sleeplessness. Wretch! “To tink dat a handsome gal like dat would-ah tek up with a dam‘ black neygah man like him, he? Now, wa’ you tink o’ dat? H’ answer me, no!” Oh, how her poor little ones were going to the dogs!

Another girl, the eldest of the lot (Miss Buckner had had seven in all), had, O! ages before, given birth to a pretty, gray-eyed baby boy, when she was but seventeen and–again to Miss Buckner’s disgust–had later taken up with a willing young mulatto, a Christian in the Moravian Church. He was an able young man, strong and honest, and wore shoes, but Miss Buckner almost went mad–groaned at the pain her daughters caused her. “Oh, me Gahd,” she had wept, “Oh, me Gahd, dem ah send me to de dawgs—dem ah send me to de dawgs.” He was but a clerk in the cold storage; sixty dollars a month—wages of an accursed silver employee. Silver is nigger; nigger is silver. Nigger-silver. Why, roared Miss Buckner, stockings could not be bought with that, much more take care of a woman accustomed to “foxy clothes an’ such” and a dazzling baby boy. Silver employee! Blah! Why couldn’t he be a “Gold” one? Gold is white; white is gold. Gold-white! “Gold,” and get $125 a month, like “de fella nex’ tarrim, he? Why, him had to be black, an’ get little pay, an’ tek way me gal picknee from me? Now, hanswah me dat!” Nor did he get coal and fuel free, besides. He had to dig down and pay extra for them. He was not, alas! white. Which hurt, left Miss Buckner cold; caused her nights of sleepless despair. Wretch! “To t‘ink a handsam gal like dat would-ah tek up wi‘ a dam black neygah man like him, he, w’en she could a stay wi’ me ‘n do bettah.” But few knew the secret of Miss Buckner’s sorrow, few sensed the deep tragedy of her.

And so, to dam the flow of tears, Miss Buckner and the remaining ones of her flamingo-like brood, drew up at The Palm Porch. Sense-picture. All day Miss Buckner’s brunettes would be there on the veranda posturing nude, half-nude. Exposed to the subdued warmth, sublimated by the courting of fans and shadow-implements, they’d be there, galore. Gorgeous slippers, wrought by some color-drunk Latin, rested on the tips of toes—-toes blushing, hungering to be loved and kissed. Brown and silver ones. Purple and orange-colored kimonos fell away from excitably harmless anatomies. Inexhaustible tresses of night-gloss hair, hair–echoes of Miss Buckner’s views on the subject—-hair the color of a golden moon, gave shade and sun glows to rose-red arms and bosoms. Vases of roses, flowers … scented black and green leaves … crowned the night. Earth-sod fragrances; old, prematurely old, and crushed, withered flowers. Stale French perfumes. … Gems. Gems on the tips and hilts of mediæval daggers. Priceless stones strewn on boudoirs. Hair pins of gold; diamond headed hat pins. Shoe heels ablaze with white, frosty diamonds. …

And so, to dam the flood of tears, Miss Buckner and the remaining ones of her flamingo brood, had drawn up at the Palm Porch. All day, the sun burning a flame through the torrid heavens, they would be postured on the porch. Virgin to the sun’s gentle caresses, with the plants and flowers keeping the heat at bay, they’d be there. Slippers dangled on the tips of restive toes. Purple-lined kimonos falling away gave access to blushing, dimpled bodies. Great fine tresses of hair, the color of night, gave shadows to the revelations, gave structure.

Upon the porch sat the cream of Miss Buckner’s cultivation. Sprawling, legs … soft, round, dimpled … on the arms of bamboo chairs … smoking … drinking … expostulating.

III

“Come, Zuline,–hurry–it’s getting late.” The porch was vacant, dusk had fallen, and Miss Buckner wore an evening gown of white taffeta, fashioned in the Victorian epoch. It was tight and stiff and created a rustle, and there was a black bandeau pasted on to her skull.

Sullenly the girl came, and gathered up the debris. “Sweep up dis ash, an cayh dis slip in Goldy’s room, de careless t’ing,” said Miss Buckner.

On the bare floor, dismal gore-spots on various parts of their crash and crocus bag–eyes watering at them–were men, white men. In the dead of night, chased by the crimson glow of dawn, intense white faces, steaming red in the burning tropics, flew madly, fiercely across the icy-flows of the Zone to the luxurious solitude of The Palm Porch.

She went to one of the dusk-flooded rooms and seized a studded dagger which she stuck among the watches and brooches which shone on her bosom. She patted it, made sure it was safely a part of the glittering pattern, and ordered the night on.

“Get up, girls,” she shouted, invading room after room, “it is late, get up!”

“Hello, Sailor Mack. Hit any home runs to-day?”

“An’ you, you Kentucky millionaire–how many ships came through the locks to-day?”

“Bullocks–did you say?”

“Fie!”

To-night, the girls, immune to the vultures of despair, lie, sprawled on bamboo lounges, sat at three-legged tables, eyes sparkling, twittering. …

O! comin’ down with a bunch o’ roses
Comin’ down
Come down when Ah call ya’…

Rustle of silks. European taffeta silk. Wrestling-tight. On an open, buxom body, cherished under the breezes of a virgin civilization, it was a trifle unadoring. It pressed and irked one.

“Oh, Mistah Council,” she said, “how do you do?” Young Briton, red-faced, red-eyed, red-haired. Yellow-teethed, dribble-lipped, swobble-mouthed, bat-eared.

He kissed the proffered hand, and bowed low. He was gallant, and half-drunk. “Where’s my girl, Anesta,” he said, “by God, she is the sweetest woman, black or white–on the whole goddamed–“

“Sh, be quiet, son, come,” and Miss Buckner led him to a chair among a group of men.

Constantly, Miss Buckner’s hand kept fluttering to the diamond-headed pin stuck in her bosom.

“There now, boys, please be quiet … the captain is coming. …”

Anywhere else she’d have slipt up, but here it rippled like an ocean breeze free of timidity or restraint. In the presence of Islanders it might have resulted otherwise, but to strangers–and it was so easy to fool the whites—-the color of one’s voice went unobserved.

. . . . . . .

Chaos prevailed, but Miss Buckner was quite sober. All about there were broken vases, overturned flower-pots, flowers, women’s shoes. All the men were prostrate, the women exultant.

As midnight approached, the doorbell suddenly rang. And Miss Buckner rose, cautioning serenity. “All right, boys, let’s have less noise–the captain‘s comin‘.”

In Anesta’s lap there was an eruption, a young Vice-Consul staggered up–shaking her off, ready to face the coming of the visitor.

“Sit down, Baldy,” she implored, “come back here to me–“

“Skipper, eh? Who is he? Wha’ ta hell tub is ‘e on?” Expectorations. Noisy-tongued lime juicers. …

“Let the bleddy bastard go to …”

“Now, Tommy, that isn’t nice. …“

“Hell it ain’t! Blarst ‘im! Gawd blimmah, I’ll blow ta holy car load o’ yo’. …”

“Skipper, eh? Who is he? Wha’ ya hell tub is he on?” He was tall and his body rocked menacingly.

“Put that goddam lime juicer to bed, somebody, will ya?”

“Yo’ gawd dam American–why–“

Anesta rose, flying to him. “Now, Tommy,” she said, patting his cheek, “that isn’t nice.”

“Let the bleddy bastard go to–“

Again the swift, swift rustle of silks. Olive one of silk; sweating, arranging, eliminating. …

“Anesta, dear, take Baldy inside. …“

“But, mother!”

“Do, darling … !”

“No, Gawd blarst yo’ … lemme go! Lemme go, I say!”

“Be a gentleman, Baldy, and behave!”

“What a hell of a ruction it are, eh?”

“Help me wit ‘im, daughter. …“

“Do, Anesta, dear. …”

But apparently an omnipotent being had invaded the porch, and a deep-throated voice barked sweetly down it, “Anesta, darling, take Baldy inside, and come here!“

“But, mother—“

“Do as you are told, darling, and don’t waste any more time.”

“No, Gawd blarst yo’–nobody will slip off these pants of mine. Lemme go!”

“Be a gentleman, sweet, and behave.“

“What a hell of a ruction it are, eh?”

“Help me wit’ ‘im, Hyacinth–“

Yielding ungently, he staggered along on the girl’s arm. He stept in the crown of Mr. Thingamerry’s hat. A day before he had put on a spotless white suit. Laundered by the Occupation, the starch on the edges of it made it dagger–sharp. Now, it was a sight. Ugly wine stains darkened it. Drink, perspiration, tobacco weed moistened his sprigless shirt front. Awry–his tie, collar, trousers. His reddish brown hair was wet, bushy, ruffled. Grimy curses fell from his red, grime-bound lips. Six months on the Isthmus, its nights and the lure of The Palm Porch had caught him in its enervating grip. It held him tight. Sent from Liverpool to the British Postal Agency at Colon, he had fallen for the languor of the sea coast … had been seized by the magic glow of The Palm Porch.

Ungallantly yielding, he permitted the girl to force him along on her arm. He stepped in the crown of Mr. Thingamerry’s hat. Only yesterday he had put on a gleaming white suit. Done by the Occupation, the starch on the edges of it made it dagger sharp. Now it was a sight; ugly drink stains darkened it. Booze, perspiration, tobacco weeds moistened it. His shirt, once stiff, was black and wrinkled. His tie, his collar, and trousers awry. His fire-red hair was wet and bushy and rumpled. Black curses fell from his mouth. But six months in the tropics and the nights and the girls at the Palm Porch had overpowered him. Held him tight. Sent from Liverpool to the British Consulate at Colon, he had fallen for the languor of the seacoast, he had been seized by the magic glow of the Palm Porch.

He came down from Heaven to earth
Day by day like us He grew. …”

La la la, la la la la-ah ah
La la la, la la la la-ah ah ah. …

“John three, sixteen, and the Lord said there was light. ‘And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not.’ …”Upon a palpitating bosom, Miss Buckner put a young, eager hand. It was wildly in quest of something … anchorage,
perhaps.

Seeing the Captain, Miss Buckner was as bright-eyed as a débutante. Instinctively her hands fled to her beaming bosom, but now the impulse was guided by a soberer circumstance.

The Captain was smiling. “Well, good lady,” he said, “I see you are as charming and as nervous as usual. I hope you have good news for me to-day.” He bowed very low, and kissed the jeweled hand.

Viewing it–queer, the disorderly temperature of women–Captain Tintero, a local vigilante, shot a red, staring eye at her. … “Well, my good lady, I see you are nervous as usual. … Is not that so?”

Flattered by the captain’s graciousness, Miss Buckner curtsied. Her eyelids giggled coquettishly. “Oh, my dear captain,” she said, “it is so splendid of you to come. I’ve been thinking of you all day–really. Wasn’t I, Anesta, dear. Of course! Anesta, dear? Anesta, where are you, my dear? Where oh where are you?”

“Oh, dear Captain,” exclaimed Miss Buckner, touched by the Spaniard’s gentility, “of course I have!” And she went on, “My renowned friend, it is so splendid of you to come. We have been looking forward to seeing you every minute–really. Was I not, Anesta, dear?” She turned, but the girl was nowhere in sight. “Anesta? Anesta, my dear? Where are you?”

“It’s good to be this way. God blarst mah, it is. And the Lord said unto him, this is my beloved Son in whom I’m well pleased.’ …”

“… now laddie boys, don’t be naughty … be quiet, children. Captain, as I was saying … naughty … naughty boys. . . . Harmless, captain. Harmless, playful things. Anesta, Anestita? Is that the way you … persuasive captain!”

It was a risky job, wading through the lanes of wine-fat men. As she and the Captain sped along, she was careful to let him see that she admired his golden epaulets, and the lofty contemptible way he’d step over the drunken Britons, but she in her own unobtrusive way was hurling to one side every one that came in contact with her.

Cackling like a hen, pitching men to one side, she swept along. One or two British youths, palsied with liquor, desire, glared at her … then, at the olive figure, gold and crimson epaulets, high, regal prancing, at the uncovered, wolf-like fangs of the Captain. …

“Christ, He was your color. Christ was olive. Jesus Christ was a man of olive …“

Grimy Britishers. Loquacious lime-juicers. Wine-crazed, women-crazed. …

“Christ was your color. Christ was olive—Jesus Christ was a man of olive—“

“Won’t you wait a moment, Captain–I’ll go and get Anesta.” And she left him.

Bringing up the rear, Captain Tintero, at best a dandy of the more democratic salons, grew warm at the grandeur of ennui, the beauty of excess. He, too, alas! was not to be outdone when he had set his heart upon a thing. Beau Brummel of the dusky policia, he was vain, handsome, sun-colored. He gloried in a razor slash on his right cheek which he had obtained at a brawl over a German maiden in a District cantine. Livid, the claret about to spring out of it, it did not disfigure him. It lit up the glow women fancied in him. When he laughed it would turn pale, starkly pale; when he was angry it oozed red, blood-red. …

For a vigilante the road to gallantry was clear. Heart of iron, nerves of steel—-to be able to club a soused Marine to smithereens … possessing these, it was logic to exact tribute from the sulky vermin of the salons. …

Inflated by such authority, the Captain swore, spat, dug his heels in the faces of the English. …

About him tossed the lime-juicers, the “crackers”–wine-crazed, woman-crazed. He turned in disgust, and drew out an open-worked handkerchief, blowing his nose contemptuously. He was a handsome man. He was dusky, sun-browned, vain. He gloried in a razor slash he had caught on his right cheek in a brawl over a German slut in a District canteen. It served to intensify the glow women fancied in him. When he laughed it would turn pale, stark pale, when he was angry, it oozed red, blood-red.

Applying a Javanese fan to her furious bosom, Miss Buckner, her taffeta silk kicking up an immense racket, returned to the Captain. A bolden smile covered her frank, open face.

Miss Buckner returned like a whirlwind, blowing and applying a Japanese fan to her bosom.

In replacing it, a crimson drop had fallen among the gathering of emeralds and pearls, but it was nothing for her to be self-conscious about.

“Now, you impetuous Panamanian!” she warmed, the pearls on the top row of her teeth a-glitter, “you must never be too impatient. The Bible says, ‘Him that is exalted. …’ The gods will never be kind to you if you keep on that way. … No use … you won’t understand the Bible! Come! …”

Very gladly she drew close to him, smiling. “Now, you hot-blooded Latin,” she said, the pearls on the upper row of her teeth shining brighter than ever, “you must never give up the chase! The Bible says ‘Him that is exalted‘ … the gods will never be kind to you if you don’t have patience. … No use … you won’t understand … the Bible. Come!“

Gathering up the ruffles of her skirt, she sped along. Into a realm of shadowy mists. Darkness. “Too much liquor,” she turned, by way of apology, tapping her black bandeau and indicating the tossing figure of the British Postal Agent … “too much liquor … don’t mind … el es Ingles … postal agental … Ingles. …”

“Necios! Barbaridades!”

“… no matter what he says. …”

“Nigger bastard!”

“Baldy! Why, the very itheah! … Go quietly, dear. …”

“Really, Captain,” Miss Buckner waved a jewel-flaming wrist, “it is quite comic. Why, the fellow’s actually offensive! And all I can do is keep the dear child out of the wretch’s filthy embrace … advances!”

It didn’t matter very much, after all. And brushing the slip aside, Miss Buckner went on, “But of course,” she conceded, “one has to be pleasant to one’s guests. O! Captain, in dear old Kingston, none of this sort of thing ever occurred. … None! — And of course it constrains me profusely! —

Pointing to the human wreckage through which they had swept, she turned, “In dear old Kingston, Captain, none of this sort of thing ever occurred! None! And you can imagine how profusely it constrains me!”

“Anesta, where are you, my dear?”

Out of the dusk the girl came. Her grace, her beauty, the endless dam of color, of emotion that flooded her face bewitched, unnerved the captain. In an attitude of respectful indecision she paused at the door, one hand at her throat, the other held out to the captain. …

In one’s mouth it savored of butter. Miss Buckner, there at the door, viewing the end of an embarrassing quest, felt happy. The captain, after all, was such a naughty boy!

“Anesta, where are you, my dear? Here’s the Captain–waiting.“

Out of a room bursting with the pallor of night the girl came. Her grace and beauty, the tumult of color reddening her, excited the Captain. Curtseying, she paused at the door, one hand at her throat, the other held out to him.

It was butter in the Captain’s mouth, and Miss Buckner, at the door, viewing the end of a very strategic quest, felt happy. The Captain, after all, was such a naughty boy!

. . . . .

Down on the carpetless porch, dipt in the brine of shadows, the hoarse, catching voice of an Englishman called. “Anesta, Anesta … mulatto girl … Gawd blarst the bleddy spiggoty to ‘ell! Come to me, Anesta! So ‘elp me Gawd if ‘e goes artah ‘er I’ll cut the gizzard out … hey … where’s that bleddy Miss Buckner… ?”

Sore, briny silence. “And His word is mine. And the word was God, and all things made by Him, and God. … No. Gawd damn it, that isn’t right. Jesus! …”

“And the light shineth in darkness, and the darkness comprehendeth it not. …” Endless emotion. Swung up upon the shores of a spirit-sea, where the owls and saints and the shiny demons of the hideous morass emerged at the low tide to mate and war and converse on the imperishable odes of time … ghastly reality!

. . . . .

Scream … it touched no one. Doing its work at a swift, unerring pace. … A death-rattle, and the descent of shadows and solitude.

At noon the day after the cops came and got the body. Over the blood-black hump a sheet was flung. It ate up the scarlet. Native crowds stuck up their chins at it … even the tiny drip-drip on the piazza. From the dark roof hanging over the pavement it came. …

Way back–to be exact, a week after life moved on The Porch–a new white screen-cloth had been put together and pelted out that way. A slow, rigid procession of them. Now, its edge–that is the novelty of it–taken off, Miss Buckner, firm in the graces of the Captain drunk in Anesta’s boudoir, was so busy with sundry affairs she did not have space to devote to the commotion the spectacle had undoubtedly created. To put it briefly, Miss Buckner, while Zuline sewed a button on her suede shoes, was absorbed in the task of deciding whether to have chocolate soufflé or maiden hair custard at lunch that afternoon. …

. . . . . .

The following day the policia came and got Tommy’s body. Over the blood-black hump a sheet was flung. It dabbed up the claret. The natives tilted their chins unconcernedly at it.

Firm in the Captain’s graces Miss Buckner was too busy to be excited by the spectacle. In fact, Miss Buckner, while Zuline sewed a button on her suède shoes, was endeavoring to determine whether she’d have chocolate soufflé or maidenhair custard for luncheon that afternoon.