Rich Man's Coffin (10 page)

         
“You don’t say.”
 
Said Black Jack.

“Yeah, Nick from the ship caught him trying to crawl into his bunk with him one night after liberty in Rome.”
 
Groggy explained.
 
“Shh, shh.
 
Here he comes!”

“I heard that.”
 
Said Happy.
 
“I wish you’d stop it, Groggy.”

“Now, Happy.”
 
Groggy said,
 
“You know we weren’t talking about you!”

“Yeah, sure.”
 
Said Happy.

“Now drink up, both of you!” Groggy yelled, hoisting his stein.

Black Jack felt rather cheerful suddenly.
 
The room had grown busier and rowdier. The loud noise consisted of boastful conversations and mugs being rammed together for countless agreements on many manly matters, and it lifted his spirits.
 
Even Happy seemed happier.
 
Then the women and the Maori villagers began to stream in.

         
Black Jack had caught distant glimpses of the brown-skinned people along the beach while he was working, but he had yet to get a good look at them.
 
He did not want to stare, thinking that any rudeness might be considered a threat coming from such an odd newcomer as himself.
 
He saw them clearly and close-up now, through the lens of his mild inebriation.
 
What had appeared at a distance as dirt, and possibly stains on their faces, now came into focus as intricate and elaborately designed tattoos in symmetrical curves and lines.
 
The males had their entire faces covered. The females had only involved their chins from the point to just beneath the lower lip.
 
The ink was a dark green, and it complemented their smooth, brown skin.
 
Anything like that on me wouldn’t even show up
, thought Black Jack.
 
The Maori natives’ hair was coarse, thick, long, and black as a cornfield crow.
 
They had high cheekbones, hazel eyes, and magnificently white teeth.
 
Through his grog goggles, they seemed to be a striking and beautiful people.
 
They reminded him of the Indians back home, although more fierce.
 
Their language had a rhythmic, pleasing cadence to it, with a consistent and frequent use of ‘T’, ‘K’, and ‘F’ sounds.

         
“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 Black 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.