"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.
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!"
"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.
* * * * *
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' 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--"
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--"
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.
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.
"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 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.
"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.
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.
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.
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!"
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? 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!
* * * * *
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.
_SUBJECTION_
6
_SUBJECTION_
Of a sudden the sun gave Ballet an excuse to unbend and straighten
himself up, his young, perspiring back cricking in the upward swing. He
hurled the pick furiously across the dusty steel rail, tugged a frowsy,
sweat-moist rag out of his overall pocket and pushed back his cap,
revealing a low, black brow embroidered by scraps of crisp, straggly
hair. He fastened, somewhat obliquely, white sullen eyes on the Marine.
Irrefutably, by its ugly lift, Ballet's mouth was in on the rising
rebellion which thrust a flame of smoke into the young Negro's eyes.
"Look at he, dough," he said, "takin' exvantage o' de po' lil' boy. A
big able hog like dat."
Toro Point resounded to the noisy rhythm of picks swung by gnarled
black hands. Sun-baked rock stones flew to dust, to powder. In flashing
unison rippling muscle glittered to the task of planing a mound of
rocky earth dredged up on the barren seashore.
Songs seasoned the rhythm. And the men sang on and swung picks, black
taciturn French colonials, and ignored Ballet, loafing, beefing....
The blows rained. The men sang--blacks, Island blacks--Turks Island,
St. Vincent, the Bahamas--