“How could that ever be a good thing?”
“Well, it is also true that the white man prefers to dominate, rather than kill. He seems to kill only that which he cannot farm, enslave, or domesticate: Like the whales for example. Maybe by signing this treaty, you will make the Pakeha believe that they are dominating the Maori and the land. Maybe that will make peace for everyone. Let the white man think that he has ownership and control.”
“That is ridiculous. Whatever gave you such a revolting idea? If the white man thinks that he is Master, then he is. How do you justify that?”
“Not necessarily. Now think about it: I said the white man will kill what he cannot control. That means he will try to control you, but can he really? Can he control your soul, my friend? No, and we both know that no one can control the soul of the land.”
Robulla said, “Yes. I see. They can kill the body, but they cannot kill the soul. Very wise, my son. Perhaps you should come and sign this contract, this Treaty of Waitangi.”
“No, I will leave that for the Maori to decide. You must remember, old man, I am merely a black white man myself. Besides, the white men you are dealing with now are not the people of my land. I believe that if these Pakeha do you wrong in this deal, then perhaps they will have the man from my land to deal with someday.”
Robulla said, “Ah, but you are, and always will be, so much more to me. Thank you, my son. Now perhaps you should return to your business.” He pointed toward the hut as he departed.
Black Jack, casting a sideways glance, said, “It is finished.”
Chapter 20
“Five seasons full on, and what do I have to show for it?” The man asked with a snarl, speaking more to the pot than to the men around him.
“Ah, well, you’ve got quite a nice stroke there, mate!” One man belted out. The others laughed.
Cook continued to stir the large try-pot at the back of the fire, while he chucked chunks of blubber into the two closer pots with his free hand. “Thanks, mate, but I mean seriously, what have I got after five years of whaling?” Cook asked again, annoyed by the taunts of his cohorts. Richard Cook, his face eerily lit by the glowing coals of the furnace under the pots, sat on the vertebrae of a whale while he stirred the hot oil with a steady sway. He was an American shore-whaler, a Yank as his colleagues affectionately coined him. He had been a regular among the throngs of nubile and seasoned harpooners alike who had come and gone over the years in and around Kakapo. Jackie’s Bay was what he and this tight circle of compatriots called it now. Anyone who had worked the channel for long came to know Jackie. Knowing Jackie meant respecting the large, burly man who had started the shore-whaling trade in this corner of the world, and realizing that he was still in control of life and law as far as the inhabitants of this stretch of beach were concerned.
“What are you on about, Dick? You ain’t no Captain, Cook.” Now there was a man, he thought, not like this crybaby Yank. “You’ve been on more ships than the Tory Channel can hold at one time, and you frittered all your earnings away.”
“You know what I’m talking about. They work us like dogs when the whales are running, happily take our money for grog and lodging. Then they expect us to bugger off somewhere else as soon as the last whale does!”
“Pipe down, Cook, you don’t know what you are talking about.” Said another man with an Australian accent. “If you got along with any of those captains,” he said as he waved his hand over the line of ships moored quietly out in the calm moonlit bay, “you’d be first out of here to follow the whales with the rest of the lot every time. Now whose problem is that?”
“No, no, you know that’s not right. I’ve given outstanding service on every ship that I’ve served on.”
“ Service on every ship that I’ve served on? That makes sense!” Said a third man. “Sam, Charlie, have you given, outstanding service on the ships you’ve served on?”
“Why yes. Yes I have, served with outstandingly servile servitude, on the ships I’ve served on!”
Another said, “Serves you right!” Everyone but Cook laughed hard.
Cook said, “Yeah, right. You know what I mean.”
“All I know,” said the first man, “is that none of those ships wants you. They’d sooner see you go over the loggerhead tangled in the line than have you hanging about the boat like an albatross. And that’s no one’s fault but your own.”
Cook asked, “What do you mean?”
“Ah, c’mon mate. You’re always on the piss, even when the rest of us have called it quits. That’s where all of your money goes. And then you’re too drunk to stand a proper watch, if you can stand at all. And as far as your reputation...”
“Now don’t get on about that!” Cook shouted.
“You know it’s true!” the veteran shot back. The others stared at the coals, nervously exchanging sideways glances as the argument between these two men heated.
“Now that’s not fair.” Cook sputtered back as his voice broke.
“Fair, blah! You are the worst Watch out here. Hell, what has it been now, three watches in a row you’ve let a fish get right out from under your nose? Ask Patrick! He knows! You saw that one while you were on the pots the other day, right Norton?” One of the men nodded slowly in silent agreement, looking down so as not to fan the flames of the spat. “You complain about not having anything, mate. You’re lucky you’re still here at all, at the rate you’re losing mates and allies!” roared the old man.
“I know, I know.” Cook quietly conceded. “But listen: You guys know I’m not a bad bloke. I don’t know what it is. I’ve just had the worst luck lately."
"Luck! Get off it mate, it's you!" said the old man, disgusted.
"No, listen really, I've got it all figured out." Cook uttered desperately. He continued with his soliloquy while the others half-listened, resigned to letting him vent rather than waste their breath. They listened as he began quietly, with how it all began: His descent into destitution. They listened to how he had been a fairly successful farmhand; until his employer had accused him of stealing, and his reputation had suffered among the townspeople. They heard about his hearing about whaling in the South Seas; how lucrative he had heard it was; how a man could make his fortune in only a few years. He explained how it had been a new start for him. They listened as he told about not adapting well to sea-faring life, and the code by which sailors live by, being just a simple farmer and all. He went on and on about how suddenly no one liked him or helped him with unfamiliar tasks, and how the entire crew had ceased to speak to him. He spoke of the months of isolation, though he was surrounded by men, and how one day he found that “he could do nothing right”; and that he thought he was going insane.
And that is when the corporal punishment began. His superiors began to present mysterious charges against him to the First Mate. Small violations at first, such as unsatisfactory tidiness in his quarters; even though, he swore, the state of affairs of his fellow sailors was “ten times worse.” The First Mate had seemed helpful at first, offering his counsel and advice on the little matters; and always finishing their closed-door talks with a fatherly, “I hope that I’ve helped you, and that you can do better in the future.”
However, Cook asserted, that with the increasing frequency and seriousness of charges against him (he did not eat the Captain’s chicken!) the understanding nature of the First Mate had started to fade; and even he began to treat Dick Cook with the same impersonal disdain with which the rest of the crew had long since perfected.
It had become his professional duty, the First Mate informed him one day, to report him to the Captain as a serious threat to the operation of the ship. This had surprised Cook, he said, that his trusted friend had turned on him so swiftly and coldly; and that standing before the Captain, he had found not even a trace of sympathy or warmth that had once been exhibited to him by the First Mate, and even the rest of the crew at one time, as he recalled.
The Captain had quickly dismissed him, as
he would a parcel being delivered to shore; and the First Mate had explained matter-of-factly once outside the Captain’s cabin that Cook was to be reassigned to a sister ship in the company’s fleet that was short-staffed. The Mate had said further that the ‘offer’ only came with a disciplinary mark in his service record: Or else he would be dismissed from service altogether; and he would have to find and finance his own passage to wherever. Without much of a life to return to in the States, Cook said, he had quickly taken the former; although he had misgivings about starting out on a new ship with a black mark against him.
Things had actually gone well on the next ship, he was surprised to say; even getting camaraderie and support upon freely admitting that “no one liked him” on his previous ship. "We like you just fine!" always came the chorus in the ship’s galley; as he became a hail-fellow-well-met, and a bit of a celebrity as well, being the only Yank on an Australian ship. He had even discovered that he was quite a skilled seaman, rather than the incompetent buffoon that the others had made him believe; and he had excelled on this Aussie ship, even advancing a rank with the increased pay and rations to boot.
But then had come the night that he fell asleep on watch, and had been reprimanded by his superior; and it seemed that within a few weeks the entire cycle was repeating itself. That happened on three more ships, until he could be transferred no more; and he was relegated to the permanent status of shore-whaler.
“See, it’s all you.” the old man said after a pause.
Cook sank from his oratorical posture into despair. “You don’t understand.” he said, having expected at least a modicum of empathy from his audience.
“I understand you’re a self-pitying lag, Cook!” the old whaler exclaimed; and the men erupted into satisfied laughter once again, relieved after their long, dutiful silence.
“Hear, hear!” they all shouted in unison. “Now go to bed, Cook. You’ve got first watch tomorrow; and no excuses this time.”
Dick puckered in confused, pent anger. As he continued to stir the hot, slimy scrag in the pot, he thought, what did they mean by that, no excuses? “You know what I’m all about, right Jack?” He spoke to one dark figure who had been sitting among the now disbanding mob, not laughing, not speaking. He had remained seated, staring at the coals under the cool indigo sky.
“No, mate, I’m afraid I don’t.” Said the black man with a low, husky voice.
“C’mon, you’ve had your share of hard times. Everyone knows your story: How you were mistreated by your kind and all. You did what you had to do and now you’re all right. So you know what I’m talking about when I say I’ve been tread on, right?”
“Ain’t no one treading on you, Dick. You’s mucked up inside: You need to sort that out.” Black Jack said.
Cook perked up. “No, really Jack, look at us! Hell, you were a slave; and now look at us! I’m sitting here doing the same thing, over and over, day in and day out. Look!” He exaggerated the motions of stirring the hot pot. “Boil double, toil and trouble! This is slavery, Jack: The same thing over and over! We should be free! See what I mean?”
“No. Mate, I’ve got my freedom. Not bragging on myself, but I’ve paid my dues and now I am what I consider to be a reasonably successful free man. My freedom came the minute I was thrown off my first whale and swam to shore long ago. I was a success the second I walked up out of the waves at that little bay down the way here. Even though it didn’t seem all that great then, it sure does now. I’m gonna be famous for that bay one day, you watch and see! Now, if it’s work you’re afraid of, mate, then that might be your problem. Of course, shore whaling ain’t glamorous. You won’t hear the other men go out of their way to say that. But it’s what you get out of it in the end that’s important. No one really likes to work, mate. Is that what you wanted to hear?”
“No, no, you’re getting me all wrong.” Cook said. “I’m not afraid of work, but look!” He pointed around in all directions.
“Yes?”
“Look at what this guy has!” Cook exclaimed.
“You mean Jackie, or Wynen?”
“Both! Either! Jackie’s got his little whaling station here with all the modern comforts, all set up for him and his family. And Mr. Wynen, the shopkeeper: He’s got us all by the purse strings. Opening the first and only store on the South Island, how difficult is that?”
“Well, what’s wrong with that? They’re both trying to make an honest living, just like the rest of us.”
“On our backs, Jack, on our backs! And honest? Huh!”
“What are you implying, Dick? You don’t think they charge a fair price?”
“How would we know, eh Jack? Think about it. How would we know?”
“Well.” Black Jack replied, “Why would they cheat us?”
“Wake up, Jack! Do you think they really give a damn about us?”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, just look! Do they have any women around here for us?” Cook asked.
“Oh, so that is what this is about!”
“No, no, don’t steer the subject, mate. Look at Jackie! He’s got his little wife from way back. You think he cares about us?”
“It’s not his job to provide us with women folk, Dick. Besides, I did my best to set us all up when I first got here. And you ruined that chance!”
“I know, I know. But she’s still around here somewhere, saying she’s my wife. Besides, how many of these blokes are still truly hitched to the horse they rode in on? Look at the other one up the hill!”
“Mr. Wynen?”
“Exactly!” Dick exclaimed. “Look at what he calls his wife.”
“Darling, I suppose.”
“No, Jack, his little Maori princess. The one up on the hill running the store.”
“So.”
“So! So he’s got another missus up in town, with other children running around by her. This one here is just his little holiday mistress.”
“Really?” Well, what business is that of yours?”
“What business? It’s everyone’s business mate! It’s not fair, him holding himself up as a pillar of the community and all, expecting us to pay top dollar for everything and then expecting us to show respect and gratitude on top.” Cook ranted. “And what about you? Wouldn’t you appreciate a little female company now and then?”
Black Jack bristled. “Now don’t you worry about me, mate. I’ve had my share of white ladies and Maori princesses alike. I don’t have a problem in that department, like some people.”
“Well you can avoid the issue all you want Jack. I’ve seen how it works around here, and I don’t like it.” He said, cocking his chin.
“Well, why don’t you just leave then, if it’s all that bad.”
“I might just, Jack, I might just! Anyplace is better than here!”
II
After Black Jack stormed away, Cook stewed awhile longer. He continued stirring his steaming cauldron of blubber. No one understands me, he thought. They all close their eyes. He knew, though. He knew exactly what was wrong. He searched his empty pockets with his free hand. He came up empty. He began to get quite angry about all that had transgressed during the evening.
Blast! Not even a shilling for a tin of tobacco. He thought. His anger joined his frustration. Why am I always out of tobacco, and money for that matter? He asked himself. And the store! What absurd hours for the only damned store for miles around. Here, of all places, where the sun does not set until nine, the shop closes its doors promptly at six! It always infuriated him when, after a long day of stirring or flensing without so much as an offer of a relief from one of his mates, he would run bounding up the hill to the shop; only to see the doors being closed and the open sign turned away. It was a constant hassle. There he would go, humble as a Booby bird, dipping and bowing, begging his pardon; can I please purchase a tin, it has been a long day; and always the same reply: Sorry, mate, we really can’t, why didn’t you get some earlier today? Free to him, though, came all the patronizing st
ock anecdotes reserved for the smallest of children.
Now, his blood began to boil as he took large, cumbersome steps up the steep, grassy slope toward the shop. He noticed as he walked that the grass was becoming increasingly slippery. Is that dew at this hour? He wondered. The sun didn’t set but an hour ago! As he looked around, he noticed his path becoming darker. A glance upward revealed that clouds were swiftly sliding in to obscure the silver moon. Rain, he thought. Wonderful, just what I need! A soggy smoke before a restless, wet night under a skiff. That is, if I even get my tobacco.
He could see the strong light of a single oil lamp through the shop door’s windows as he stepped up onto the deck. A chance, he thought. Perhaps they will understand this time. He saw her through the glass working over the day’s books at the bench. He tried the door, and easily slithered in. She turned with a start, saw it was him, and quickly told him the shop was closed.
“I know ma’am, but it really is urgent.” He said, as he mustered his most polite personality. “You see, me and the men, we’ve been working late these days, finishing the season…”
“We’re closed for business. Please come back tomorrow. We open at seven in the morning.”
“Ma’am, if I could just get a tin of tobacco, I will promptly pay for it tomorrow.” He said, as his voice carried up at the end of his sentence. He slid closer to her. He sensed fear.
“My husband, Mr. Wynen, is away for the evening on business. It really is not up to me to let things out of the shop.” She said. “Please come back tomorrow, and he will take care of you.”
Her voice seemed to crawl under his skin. He stepped up to her stool and said, “What is it?”
The Maori woman stared back at his face, now dark and twisted with anguish in the flickering light. She clung to her courage without blinking. “What is what?”
Rich Man's Coffin Page 17
