Rich Man's Coffin

by K Martin Gardner

  Rich Man’s Coffin

  A Novel

  By

  K. Martin Gardner

  Second Edition

  Revised 10th Anniversary Printing

  Copyright 2012

  K. Martin Gardner

  Penny Per Page Publishing LLC

  First Edition

  Copyright May 2002

  Kenneth Gardner

  Xlibris Corporation

  Prologue

  “You never know when you’re gonna need to swim. You know that, boy?” She prodded, as she tossed him skyward. His small, wet belly slapped into her raised palms, as if she were catching a big, slippery fish falling from the heavens.

  “Yes, I know.” He said.

  She baited her catch. “You never know when you gonna need to swim, Arthur. You know that?” She asked, louder.

  “Yes, m’am…” He began, stopped short by the sensation of water flooding his throat.

  “You mind your back talk!” She snapped, plunging him under. “I’ll show you what all the white man’s food has done to this African princess. Get some proper potato and pig in you, like me, son!”

  He popped up, gasping, “Mama! All right, Mama, I’ll swim. I’ll swim!”

  He showed all of his seven years; still his ample mother had no trouble lofting him overhead.

  “Go on, then.” She said, shoving him out into the murky pond where floated the flotsam of duck feathers and filth. “Here it is one of the best days of the summer, and you’re gonna mess it up for us. You know the Master will be back from town soon.”

  Threshing water and weeds with a dog paddle, he said, “Mama, I can run faster than I can swim. Besides, the cabin is just other side of that old hedge. He ain’t gonna catch us.”

  Suddenly, a dust cloud appeared down the road, with the sound of horses and their driver coming closer.

  “Swim, Arthur, swim!” She overtook him as he reached the bank. She scooped him under one arm as her feet met mud. She galloped up onto the grassy shore, dripping as she scrambled between scurrying birds, weeping willows, and the other wet women squirming along the well-worn way through the big, bushy boxwood. Happily, the crack of the cabin door slamming shut behind them stood in for the backlash of the whip that day.

  Chapter 1

  “Call me Arpur. I came from Sydney to New Zealand on the Shibboleth. The ship eventually went down in Rio de Janeiro, where she was a whaler as well.”

  “Who is she?” Interrupted the white-wigged man.

  “Pardon?” Asked the black man.

  “She. You said, ‘where she was a whaler.’ Who is she?”

  Surprised, the witness replied, “The ship, Sir. The ship’s name was Shibboleth. Us whalers refer to our ships as she.”

  “I know that! You made it sound as if some woman was a whaler, Harper, and we all know that women don’t whale!” The man shouted.

  “I see that you have taken the liberty to study the ship’s logs pretty well, Judge, using my sea name and all like that. Why don’t you just go ahead and tell my story for me?” The courtroom burst into laughter. The black man joined in, his laugh heard above all the rest.

  “Now, Arpur,” The Judge said, conceding a bit of respect upon the witness. “Please forgive me, and please continue.”

  The man looked around, his grin fading as his eyes swam the courtroom of unfamiliar faces. He cleared his throat and spoke. “The Foreman at the station was Tom Evans, and the owner was Johnny Jones. I was six or seven seasons whaling at the Island.”

  “Which Island? Norfolk Island? Stewart Island? Oh, you mean the little island just above the southern half of New Zealand, the island named Kapiti!”

  “Yes. There were four ships working the station.” He stopped again in awkward silence.

  “Is that it then, of your whaling days? And what about now?” Asked the Judge.

  “I live at Picton Road, over by Nelson. Major Baillie has been my employer going on ten years now. I originally arrived in this country just after the Battle of Kuititanga.” Said Arpur.

  “And for the record, my Maori brothers who may not remember, that battle took place the Sixteenth of November, 1839.” Explained the Judge. “Now continue, Arpur.”

  “I don’t know the year she came here exactly. It was not 1840. I made up one of the boat’s crew and was the after oarsman. We commenced whaling a few days after I arrived.” His dangling jaw implied more words to follow, but he suddenly shut his mouth and folded his hands.

  “And?”

  “And that is all I have to say. I am not on trial. You asked me to come and tell you about my role in the Maori wars, and here I am.”

  “Arpur, what year is it now?” inquired the Judge.

  “It is 1890.”

  “And how old are you?”

  “Now, Judge, I am not that senile! State your business. You know that I am seventy-eight years old.”

  “So, in those seventy-eight years, you are asking us to believe that all you have done is a little bit of whaling and a little bit of gardening for the Major?” The court chamber roared with laughter again.

  Arpur was speechless. A heavy strain dripped down his trembling face.

  “Court adjourned!” Yelled the Judge, and he waved his hand. The elder men grumbled and shot menacing looks at Arpur as they milled out of the courtroom. The Judge approached the large black man and put an arm around his broad shoulders. “Now, my friend, you will have dinner at my house with my family tonight, and we will hear the entire story, won’t we?”

  Arpur stood and shuffled softly with small steps beside his friend, as a sleepy child being led to bed. He seemed to search his mind for a way to begin. He rehearsed the line under his breath as if preparing for a speech. He declared, “Most people know me as Black Jack White...”

  Chapter 2

  “You want to be a what?” The woman asked.

  “A whaler, Mama.” Said the young black man.

  “That’s what I thought you said.” His mother sighed. She paused. “Not a sailor, a whaler. And how does a black man from the south go about finding any whales?” She demanded.

  “The ships. They leave from up north all the time. Jeff was tellin’ me.”

  “And what does Jeff know about ships up north? Hell, he hasn’t been anywhere but knee-deep in cotton his whole life. You tellin’ me that he knows anything 'bout sea sailin’?” she asked.

  The young man stood up from the kitchen table as he explained, “Mama, Jeff’s been places. Ain’t nobody knows that ‘ceptin me, and now you. Jeff gets around, just like that old tomcat you hate so much gets around this farm.”

  “Bullcockey!” The woman blurted, as she shot up out of her rickety chair and slapped his hands down. She scolded, “The only place that Jeff’s been is out cattin’ at night ‘round the old-timers’ shed. He ain’t got nothin’ but gossip and second-hand stories from big talkers. You willin’ to hang for that, Arthur?”

  “No, ma’am, but...” Arthur looked up from the floor and tried to tell her more.

  “But nothin’, boy! You got responsibility here. You got a wife already. That’s more than most of these old dogs around here got. And Lord knows I don’t need you lookin’ after me, but she might! Did you ever think about that?” she shouted.

  “Mama, I know all that.” He whined. “That’s why I’ve got to do this. I want to be free. I want us to be free. I hear one year out there, and a man can support his family, his free family, up north for the rest of their lives.”

  “You’ll hang, son! You’ll get us all lynched, you know that?”

  “Mama, I can make it. I’ve got it all planned out. I’ve been talkin’ with Jeff and he says there’s a trail up the mountains that white folk know nothin’ about. Goes clear
through to New York.”

  “New York City! Hell, why don’t you jes' go down to Shreveport or Nawlins and hop on a boat down there? There’s got to be some men doin’ somethin’ down there.” She said.

  “There is, Mama, but Louisiana is just another slave state. I’ll be caught if I go down there.” He implored. “Besides, I only need to go as far as Philadelphia.”

  She looked down, shaking her head. “Lord, Lord, child. You’re only sixteen, and you already as crazy as your poppa. When they tried to pry us apart on the auction block, I put up a fight, else you wouldn’t be here at all! Ain’t no one ever thanked me for that. Being together, with your family, that’s what life is all about.”

  They each held their ground, an arm’s length apart, staring down at the same patch of floor.

  “Mama, it will be all right.” He said after a moment of silence.

  “That’s what your father said! Remember, Arthur? And he ain’t around no more, is he?”

  “Yes, Mama. I know. But I just got a feelin’ about this. Every man’s got a destiny. I got to find mine.”

  “Destiny! Listen to you, soundin’ all like Moses.” She said, suddenly amused. “What’s wrong with what you got right here? Heh, Arthur? Why do you want more than what you got here? You got your friends, plenty to eat, and a roof over your head. What more do you want?”

  He gently seized her flailing hands. “I want more from life. I want to be free, Mama. I want freedom.”

  “You don’t even know what that is Arthur! You don’t even know! How can you have something you don’t understand? You were born a slave, Arthur. That’s what God made you. Give unto Caesar what is Caesar’s!”

  He looked away. “Well that don’t mean I’m gonna die a slave. Besides, I don’t know no Caesar, so I don’t owe him nothin’.” He stormed out the door and off the porch toward the winter cotton fields.

  His mother hesitated in her grief before running to the edge of the steps. “All right Arthur, you do what you got to do, but my only son best not go changing the family name to Whalesworth!”

  He strutted away from her, the reflection of the pink dawn clouds glowing in his proud grin.

  Chapter 3

  Arthur stood at the end of the gangplank. It would be the first time that he would walk over water, he thought, and his first time on a ship for that matter. This was the right harbor, though. The man had said. All the whalers came here. The man had even told Arthur which letters to look out for, H. M. S., else you end up right back down south, he had said. Given that the kindly black gentleman had driven the wagon the last leg out of the hills down into the city at night, Arthur trusted his advice.

  Philadelphia was beautiful in the winter. The harbor was bustling with busy tradesmen and shops. Tall, new ships came and went constantly. Life for everyone seemed happy and vibrant. Arthur smelled the electric charge of fresh snow and opportunity in the air. In his dark, dusty, worn clothes, even he was hard-pressed to seem the beggar in a city where sown about were so many sooty chaps: The prosperous, self-sufficient chimneysweeps. Besides, he was bolstered by his success of having made it to Fortune’s front door. It was of no consequence, as he walked the roughly assembled planks leading to the brig, that he could not understand the sign that read, Whalers wanted. Men of newfound freedom and fortitude: Inquire within.

  A sailor met Arthur walking across mid ship, asking if he could be of any help. “And what might be your name, Guv’nor?” He asked.

  Arthur blinked several times. He replied, “Arthur Alesworth, sah.” He waited for the man to yell at him, or worse, to grab him and shackle him to the mast.

  The sailor replied zealously, “Arthur Alesworth! The letters A, A, as in, aye, aye, Guv’nor! How fitting, chap!”

  Arthur said, “Yes, sah, I suppose so.”

  The sailor, standing a couple of inches taller than Arthur, said, “And you certainly look to be worth your ale, by far, Alesworth. Do follow me inside for a drink!”

  Arthur hesitated as the man gingerly turned and walked across the broad, open deck of the ship toward the aft cabin door. The sailor reached the door, set in the bulkhead formed by the rise of the deck near the stern of the ship, and he motioned with a wink, a nod, and a grin for Arthur to accompany him.

  Arthur followed him into the compartment at the rear of the vessel. The space opened up to reveal large tables extending from the walls out into the center in orderly rows. A wooden bar was built into the rear corner with kegs anchored to the deck. The sailor was already at one keg with a stein, pouring a beer for Arthur.

  The sailor, one hand on the mug and the other on the tap, turned his smiling face, and asked, “So you want to be a whaler, then, Guv’nor?” He finished pouring and presented the foaming mug to Arthur. He continued, “Best ale under the Crown. It’s a bit cold though, sorry, but she’ll be right!”

  Arthur, staring blankly at the sailor’s strange outfit, accepted the cup and replied, “I think I’d make a good one, sah.” He took a sip of the sudsy brew, peering around the dim cabin as his eyes became accustomed to the murk.

  The sailor held his breath. As if he had been calculating an equation in his head, he suddenly exhaled the words, “Well, yes, I think we might have something for you.” He looked down and around at the tables nervously, as if they had just appeared. He extended his arm and palm to Arthur. He said, “Please, sit here and enjoy your beverage while I see about matters. I shall return.” He exited briskly, leaving Arthur to study dark timbers and dull brass fixtures.

  Arthur sipped his ale, and after a few moments in the cool chamber bobbing gently on the harbor swells, began to feel very at ease. He envisioned himself, sailor suit and all, out on the high seas. What will it be like, he wondered, to see nothing but water? Will there be islands? Will there be storms? How well will I sleep on the waves? A seagull screeched past the small aft porthole, scattering his thoughts just as he was wondering, and why won’t that man look me square in the eyes?

  The sailor returned, walking toward Arthur, as an actor would approach a stage. He said, “I have some good tidings. The Captain would like to have a word with you!”

  Arthur looked up at him from his bench and asked, “You mean you’re not the Captain?”

  The sailor held his gaze on Arthur as his eyes flickered through a range of focal distances and conflicting thoughts. He finally sputtered and chuckled, “Good heavens, no. I wish!” His tone became less charming, and he added, “You’re a funny fellow. The Captain will be pleased to have you on board, to be sure! Come along, now.” He bolted ahead of Arthur, out of the galley door and down a ladder. Arthur struggled to keep up.

  As Arthur followed the fleeting dark form of the sailor down ladders and through low passageways, he learned several hard lessons, striking his head and knees on various painful protrusions. A light appeared from behind a slightly opened door at the end of a long hallway. Arthur heard the familiar voice of the sailor speaking in low tones behind the door. He slowed as he approached, letting his shiny new bumps and emerging bruises escort him. As he drew near the door, the sailor’s talking turned to whispers, and Arthur heard bits and pieces of his phrases: Things such as, ...he’s the one, I swear, followed by ...you should have seen ...and then he said, all followed by uproarious laughter between the sailor and an unseen man. Arthur leaned toward the crack at the back of the door where the hinges hung, craning to catch a peek at the pair.

  He touched the door, and it creaked.

  The room fell silent and the sailor spoke up, “You there, Arthur, is that you I hear? Do come in.”

  Arthur pushed slowly and stood in the doorway. The sailor lifted his hands from the Captain’s desk and stepped back. The Captain sat, hands folded, looking at Arthur with a smirk. The small cabin, no more than ten feet deep from the door and the width of the full beam of the ship, was situated directly below the aft galley where Arthur had sat. The Captain’s chamber had windows across the entire aft bulkhead, which also constituted the upper ste
rn of the ship. The walls and low overhead were completely whitewashed, and the deck was covered with a luxurious mat of woven white flax. Arthur was impressed with the stately room.

  “You must be Arthur!” Bellowed the Captain, standing to extend a hand across his large oak desk. The Captain wore a red jacket with brass buttons, and white trousers. He looked as though he were always sitting at the desk, and always in a clean uniform.

  “Yes, Captain.” Arthur said, shaking the Captain’s hand softly.

  The Captain vigorously shook Arthur’s hand. “Do sit down. Let us discuss some important matters.” He said, seating himself.

  Arthur sat stiffly in his chair. The sailor stood over the right shoulder of the Captain, and they both beamed at Arthur from behind the desk.

  “This calls for a brandy!” Boomed the Captain, as he reached for a decanter behind him on the shelf. The sailor produced two small glasses. The Captain poured a generous amount for Arthur, and an ounce for himself. Lifting his shot glass, he nodded to Arthur as he extended his arm. “Cheers!” He said, waiting for Arthur. Arthur was poised for nothing. Suddenly, awareness flashed across his face, and he quickly leaned forward splashing his cognac. The Captain clinked his drink against Arthur’s and threw back the hearty port in one swallow. Slapping his glass down on the desk, he said, “Welcome aboard the Elizabeth, Arthur!”

  Arthur lifted himself timidly, sipping from the jigger without tipping it, and replied with a slight slur. “Thank you, sah.”

  The Captain reclined. “Now, Arthur. The First Mate tells me that you want to be a whaler. Is this true?”

  “Yes, sah. I hear it's good.” Said Arthur. The brisk harbor air washed through an open porthole and flooded his gently plied mind. Staring at the bright white walls, his eyes began to swim.

  “That’s excellent,” replied the Captain. “Because we have an offer that you cannot refuse.” The Captain’s words echoed in Arthur’s ears. “Right now, we have several openings which we are hoping to close. We have made some changes within our staff, and we are looking for some very quality personnel to fill the gaps around here. There are some general seaman jobs available; however, there are also a handful of other, more select positions which we are offering to the right people.”