Rich Man's Coffin

by K Martin Gardner

  “Those buggers eat their own people, ya know.” Groggy said.

  “Huh? What did you say?” Asked Black Jack.

  “They’re cannibals. Savages. They make meals out mothers, brothers, and cousins.” Said Groggy. “They’re bloody thieves, too, the lot of them. They’ll steal anything that isn’t nailed down. It’s not their fault though, just seems to be in their bones. Just keep one eye on them and an eye on your stuff, mate. Anyway, give me your mug, Black Jack. I’ll get the third one. Happy?”

  “Yeah, sure.” Said Happy.

  Black Jack and Happy Jack were left standing together, awkwardly. He asked, “So, Happy, is that true what Groggy says?” Happy looked at him in disbelief. “I mean about the cannibals?”

  Happy, relieved, said, “Groggy says a lot of things. You have to learn to take what he says with a grain of salt.” The first complete sentence Happy had spoken all day sounded strangely intelligent to Black Jack. Black Jack began to eye him warily. Happy continued, “I haven’t seen anyone get killed or eaten around here. Except for the occasional brawl, it's a pretty quiet place.”

  Groggy returned with the third round of half-baked rum. The three men began to drink more swiftly as they delved into more serious topics. Groggy asked Black Jack, “So, what’s the deal with slavery, mate?”

  Black Jack asked, “What do you mean?”

  Groggy replied, “Well, are you gonna be one forever, or what? I mean we don’t have slaves. Where we come from, a Black is a Black, for sure, but that don’t stop him from earning his own money and doing what he pleases. How do you feel about that?”

  Black Jack said, “Right now, I am in service to the ship, and moreover, the Captain. As far as I gather, he owns me the same as the Master owned me back on the plantation. I thought that I was free as soon as I got to Philadelphia; but now it don’t seem like it. I guess when the Captain says I can go, I can go. Maybe next year, maybe the year after that. I’ll see.”

  Groggy rebutted, “Now mate, who sold you that crock of shite?” He looked at Happy for support. He looked back at Black Jack. “Mate, just from the little bit that you’ve told me, I think that I’ve got news for you. In case you did not know, you are now in one of the most remote parts of the world, getting in on the ground level of one of the most lucrative enterprises to come along since prospecting for gold!” Groggy exclaimed.

  More big talk from a dreamer, thought Black Jack.

  Groggy continued, “Mate, in this business, no one owns you. You own yourself. Isn’t that right, Happy?”

  Happy spoke up. “That’s correct, Groggy.” He turned and looked squarely into Black Jack’s eyes and said, “Shore-whaling is the opportunity of the future. At present, there are close to a thousand vessels from various nations roaming the world’s seas in a vain search for the dwindling number of sperm whales. Shore whaling is a little known, and hence underdeveloped profession, which has limitless potential. It involves the hunting of an entirely different whale, which migrates closely along the coasts of areas of the world that are largely unsettled and free of competitors, both natural and manmade. Therefore, once a station is established, we won’t have to go to the whales; they come to us, and in great numbers. With the establishment of a successful shore-whaling station comes the associated territory, which can be hunted and harvested in cooperation with as many or as few select ships as fit the criteria for partnership within a season or several seasons; depending on their productivity and ongoing relations with the station owner.”

  Black Jack’s jaw sagged as he stared into his mate’s suddenly overflowing mouth. He continued to sip his drink. Groggy remained silent, nodding in agreement with everything that Happy said.

  Happy flowed on: “This station is the first of its kind on the South Island of this burgeoning nation. Australian companies pull the strings for most of these places in the South Pacific; however, Jackie, the station owner here, has been let loose to operate rather freely; partly due to his proven experience with harvesting seals, which are now mostly gone, and partly due to the trust which he has established in the minds of his benefactor company. In its one year of operation, this station has produced a total monetary profit of approximately 200,000 British pounds. That figure is expected to double next year. Each of those whales you see out there produces about ten tons of oil. At 28 British pounds per ton, that spells massive profits. And the bones? On average about 3500 dry-weight pounds at 125 monetary pounds each, so close to a half a million pounds, or what you Yanks call dollars, at market. That is good money, no bones about it. “

  Happy paused following his stab at dry humor. Hearing no laughter from his dumbfounded audience, he continued, “In addition, each Right Whale is naturally much larger than the Sperm Whale: Approximately 300 feet long as opposed to just 90 feet long, making the per-catch payoff higher as well, so then you are looking at higher efficiency because you are getting more per whale. By next year, there will be so many new ships down here in need of working stations, anyone with any experience with us will be a prime candidate for capitalizing on the business and setting up a station of their own somewhere down the coast. Does that sound like something you’d be interested in, Black Jack?” Happy asked, as he concluded.

  Black Jack stared at him, mesmerized. He closed his mouth and slurped the drool that had begun to pool behind his lips. “Yeah, sure,” he said, choking back a cough.

  Happy cocked his chin proudly in profile, emptying his glass full-tilt. He slammed it down. “Good!” he exclaimed. “Whose shout is it?”

  “Enough talk about business, Black Jack. Look at the females in this place!” Groggy uttered.

  V

  The din of the crowd was a roar now, with tight clusters of close friends being circled by aimless souls and the few luckless lonely. Black Jack’s eyes drifted over the crowd as the foggy chatter of Groggy and Happy droned in the background. The room had become a warm, uninhibited stage where people played in a plotless drama. There were countless crusty and hardened men, now mellowed by imbibing, recounting numerous similar yet all-important sea stories to one another in loud voices. There was the odd wistful loner, standing precariously or milling between conversations, acting invisible. There were groups of women, along the walls and with tables all to themselves; gibbering, gabbing, and cackling while bobbing their heads and sniggering about various men and things. And then there was her.

  Black Jack had noticed her only since his fourth grog, when he had pulled out his harmonica and played a few whimsical notes in the mood of the moment. Now she seemed to be everywhere at once. He noticed her when she squeezed behind him and his mates, her ample hips and bosom brushing his back. She had to turn her silver platter on its side and hold it above her as she pushed through. It barely grazed his head as it caught light and shone a corona about his crown. Black Jack noticed her again cruising along the wall and weaving through crowds like a nimble mink, hoarding forgotten glasses while she shot shy looks at him. Black Jack would catch a glimpse of her now and again walking quickly to and fro behind the bar, busying herself with different tasks and waving and smiling to the occasional mate. But most importantly, Black Jack noticed her when, late in the evening, she stopped short of walking through the kitchen door, turned her head fully around, and stared him dead in the eye from across the crowded pub. Tick, tock, went the clock, as she held her chilling glare. She whipped her long, black hair, letting the door slam behind her as she magically disappeared.

  “Did you see that?” Black Jack asked his jabbering mates.

  “Excuse me, see what, mate?” Groggy snapped, before turning back to Happy with a disapproving grimace and shaking his head.

  Black Jack had been the sole target and witness of her display. He knew that look that she had given him. He realized that it had stirred something inside him. He began to float away, to rise above the clamor of the crowd and glide across the room. His senses became sharper. Her exit had gone unnoticed by everyone else. No one had twitched. But for Blac
k Jack, it had jarred loose some deep feeling that he searched his cobwebbed mind for. Back in the corner of the attic he found it: It was desire. Driven by his discovery, he made his way through the crowd like a stealthy wolf. At the point where she had vanished, he looked around and feigned the moronic actions of a drunkard looking for a loo. When no one was watching, he slipped silently through the door.

  From the dim flame of a single oil lamp in the far corner, he could see that the kitchen had been tidied up and closed for the night. All the counter clutter was now immaculate and straightened away, forming a neat museum of waving silhouettes in the dancing light. None of the shadows was hers. She was not there. Toward the back of the kitchen was another doorway, and drifting past its opening he spied a lazy puff of smoke. Then, he heard the low, sweet notes of a familiar instrument. He patted his breast pocket where his mouth harp had been resting. It was not there. How? He wondered. He attempted to walk straight through the door. Stumbling out onto the rear deck, he fell directly into her.

  She was stunning up close, Black Jack thought, as he stood upright. She eyed him up and down with a bemused look on her face, handed his harmonica back to him, and offered him her pipe. He took a drag, tasting tobacco and a hint of something else, as he looked into her eyes. He could not get over her beauty. She had long, shiny, coal-black hair that accentuated the supple young skin of her face, neck, and shoulders. She had a strong, yet delicate face; with high cheekbones, a sleek, slender jaw line, punctuated by a thin, pointed nose that flared rebelliously around the nostrils. On her chin, she wore the faint beginning of a tattoo. Black Jack had never seen anyone like her. He tried to convey his admiration with a broad smile, returning her small pipe. Her hazel eyes twinkled like the stars above. She liked him, he thought.

  The night, save for the distant din of the party within, was quiet. A warm breeze blew gently in from the bay. Small waves rhythmically lapped the shore. The full moon shone brightly in the cloudless night sky, illuminating the sparkling water, sand, and the trees around them. They stood face-to-face in awkward silence for a tense moment. She giggled. Somehow, each of them knew that it would be a fruitless endeavor to speak. Slowly, they tried relating their feelings to one another.

  Black Jack ran the back of his hand down one side of her hair and over her blouse, which was fluttering gently in the wind. She responded with a curious hand to his shoulder. She thinks I am tall, he thought. He followed by leaning in to kiss her. As his lips were just about to touch her receptive and willing mouth, a gust blew across the deck and a large wave crashed. The back door swung shut with a crack; and she leapt forward clutching at his arms. His heart quickened from her sudden closeness. The tide is coming in, he thought. As he swelled along with the ocean, she pulled back, took him by the hand, and guided him quickly off the deck into the sand. The two disappeared down a bushy footpath, a set of unfamiliar stars watching over Black Jack’s uncharted journey.

  Chapter 8

  A dark figure sits bow-legged, bent over his folded legs with arms stretched down to shackles binding wrists and ankles, on a wooden floor in an early-American cottage. The swing and sting of the cat-o'-nine-tails punctuates each utterance of the white-wigged gentleman wielding the whip.

  “It’s your attitude, boy!” Whap goes the whip. “That’s the problem!” Whap. “You know that though, right?” Whap. “Right?” The prim and proper Pontius pauses. Then, whap! “Right?”

  The sweaty, lean, half-clad figure inhales with a rush, shudders, and musters a seemingly sincere, “Yes, Sir.”

  “That’s right!” Whap. “And we’ve been through this…” Whap. “Time and time…” Whap. “Again!” Whap. “You are the problem.” Whap. “You have always been the problem.” Whap. “I have tried with you, Arthur.” Whap. “I have never…” Whap. “Ever…” Whap. “Had this much trouble…” Whap. “With anyone!” Whap.

  “But, but, Sir…” stammers the young, dark man.

  “Don’t argue!” Whap. “I am sick…” Whap. “And tired…” Whap. “Of your petty arguments, boy!” Whap. “I have my limit.” Whap. “I will only tolerate so much back talk!” Whap. “We have been very good to you, Jack.” Whap. “We take very good care of you.” Whap. “If you were anywhere else…” Whap. “You know what that would be like!” Whap. “You’ve heard about other masters, right Jack?” Another pause. Then, whap! “Right, Alesworth?” Whap!

  “Yes Sir!” the slave utters, this time feigning a bit more enthusiasm.

  “Some of your people don’t even get last names around here!” Whap. “Hell, they don’t even get to stay with their families.” Whap. “Or have wives!” Whap. “What if I take your wife away for awhile, Arthur? Will that improve your attitude?” Whap. The frilly-clothed man hesitates, beckons the bound man’s woman for a cup of water, wipes his brow with a lace handkerchief, and reassures his grip upon the leather crop. The black man lifts his head slightly, ears perking.

  “Ah, yes!” Whap. “I see that I am finally reaching you, man.” Whap. “Will that do it, then, my opinionated planter and picker?” Whap. “That is it then, I shall remove her from your cabin for a month!” Whap. “She will take up residence with the Pastor…” Whap! “Who is a decent man without a wife.” Whap.

  The Negro begins to strain against his shackles, chains clinking.

  “And he shall instruct her in the ways of respect and decency.” Whap.

  His chains begin to rattle as the collars of the binding irons begin to vibrate.

  “Will that improve your attitude toward working for this honorable estate?”

  The leggings and arm irons shake violently and all at once fall from the ebony man’s body as he stands to face his punisher. He pauses to take his wife by her hand and then continues walking toward the Master. As he passes him, he emphatically says, “No Sir!” and bumps his shoulder against the man’s chest.

  “What is going on? Where are you going?” the Owner shouts. He tries one last crack of the whip, only in vain, as the back of Arthur fades into a cloud of vapor going out the cabin door.

  “Anywhere but here, sir, anywhere but here.” a husky African male voice replies.

  Black Jack awoke suddenly on a flax floor mat under a wool blanket in a large room with big, red, wood-carved masks staring down at him from the walls.

  Chapter 9

  His eyes darted around the great room and over the hilly outline of the feminine form lying beside him. He struggled to recall the strange events of the previous night, and how he had come to be here. The still figure lay with her back to him, her profile rising and falling beneath the blanket, framed by the blue mountains he could see in the distance through the window. Her thick, dark hair and smooth, brown skin reminded him of his betrothed back home, and the many mornings that they had shared in their quarters on the estate in Mississippi. His mind raced to tell what was different in the present situation, and it suddenly dawned on him: The light! Good Gawd, he thought, it is morning; and no one is moving anywhere in this house.

  Only the throngs of birds singing disturbed the morning air, as the chilly dawn clouds evaporated from the brilliant azure sky. He attempted to remain motionless there on his back as he scanned the magnificent and strange curved carvings that lined the ceiling beams and columns that ran down the wooden walls. He tried to calm himself and put aside the urge to beat the imaginary Master coming through the door to rouse him and his sleeping beauty to complete the round of chores in the darkness before dawn.

  But it is full daylight! He thought. And all the beauty and calm began to work their spell on Arthur as he realized that for this brief moment of serenity he was free: Free to think his own thoughts, free to ponder the unknown events of the day ahead, and free to choose what to do next. Well, sort of; as he was still faced with the task of making his way back to the shore-whalers and workers. He would need to blend in undetected and eventually join up with a party returning to his ship before the day’s muster. It was a half freedom, a working furlough of sorts, for
those going ashore to work the whales. Granted even to the servants on the ship, it had come as an unexpected and pleasant surprise to Arthur when they had told him he could exchange the dirty and smelly confines of the ship’s bilge for the backbreaking duties of the beach. He had likened it to a glimpse of freedom, with close supervision; but he had not imagined the loose comings and goings that he had seen his first day joining the grimy men on the beach.

  He had been let go to do what he pleased! Moving from group to group, lending a hand to a boiling pot here, giving a back-wrenching heave-ho somewhere else to sheer an incoming whale, or running an errand further up the beach. He had tried to contain his jubilation; but he had secretly beamed the entire day, with his fellow workers not noticing the curbed enthusiasm of this black-skinned pearl-toothed fellow, until at the end of the day’s work he had become so popular that several of the more boisterous and rambunctious men had shouted out to him, “We are going to the grog shop tonight, man!”

  It all came back to him, along with the putrid aftertaste of the grog. Lying there with his prior night’s catch, he was now bursting with a newfound excitement and a feeling that was unfamiliar to him. He had never felt as if his actions were his own, or that they could make him feel good about himself. He tried to think about a word he had heard others use on occasion. He thought about a thing he had heard mentioned and discussed rarely among the slaves, and now he thought he must be experiencing it. He thought it must be pride.

  Yes, Arthur was proud of himself, whether he had felt it before unknowingly, or whether it had just flown through the open window of this Oceanic hut; it felt wondrous to him. He swelled inside, and if the feeling had a sound, it would have been heard throughout the house. The emotion was accompanied by something else.