In dank corners were
mounds of worthless powder; the bakery that once fed the miserable
dungeon dwellers had crumbled in upon itself. Outside great trees
straddled and split the massive stone walls that once commanded
the entrance to the Chagres, jungle waved in undisputed possession
in its earth-filled moat, even the old cannon and heaped up
cannon-balls lay rust-eaten and dejected, like decrepit old men
who have long since given up the struggle.
We came out on the nose of the fort bluff and had before and below
us and underfoot all the old famous scene, for centuries the
beginning of all trans-Isthmian travel,--the scalloped surf-washed
shore with its dwindling palm groves curving away into the west,
the Chagres pushing off into the jungled land. We descended to the
beach of the outer bay and swam in the salt sea, and the
policeman, scorning the launch party, squatted a long hour in the
shade of a tree above in tropical patience. Then with "sour"
oranges for thirst and nothing for hunger--for Lorenzo has no
restaurant--we turned to paddle our way homeward up the Chagres,
that bears the salt taste of the sea clear to the Spillway. Whence
one verse only of a stanza by the late bard of the Isthmus struck
a false note on our ears;
Then go away if you have to,
Then go away if you will!
To again return you will always yearn
While the lamp is burning still.
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