Rich Man's Coffin (8 page)

“Where are you from, mate?”
 
he asked in a British accent.
 
The front of his grubby uniform was smudged with oil and dirt, but his spirits seemed bright.

“America.”
 
Arthur said.

“Ah, a Yank!” said the man.
 
“John, we got a Yank in our midst!”

“I heard, I heard.” the other Brit said.

“Go on, mate.
 
Which ship is that you came in on?” asked the first man, looking over his shoulder toward the bay.
 
“
That’s
not American, is it?” he asked.

“The sh...sh... Shibboleth.”
 
Arthur stammered.

“The what?” asked the first Brit. “Oh!
 
The Elizabeth!
 
That’s right.
 
But what are you doing on an English ship, mate?” he asked.

Arthur appreciated the man’s liberal use of the word
mate
. He replied, “Yeah, that’s it.
 
She was in Liberty Town, takin’ on supplies and men.
 
The First Mate said somethin’ about ‘no whales off Nantucket, goin’ to New Zealand.’
 
So’s I said take
me
!
 
Hell, I didn’t know it was this far.
 
Neither did they, if you ask me.”
 
Arthur finished with a grin.
 
Both men chuckled.

         
The Brit said,
 
“Mate, you’re all right.
 
I don’t think I’ve seen any black men down here, except for the Maori.
 
In fact, last I heard, they don’t let your kind out of the country where you come from, right?”

Arthur shrank from the question.
 
He said timidly, “No. They don’t.
 
I is one of the lucky ones.”

“Well, mate, I think that’s just great!
 
The first Yank down here, and a black Yank at that!” the Brit exclaimed.
 
He asked,
 
“What’s your name, mate?”

Arthur said, “Arthur, sir.”

The first Brit said, “Sir?
 
What the hell you calling me
sir
for?
 
I work for a living, just like you. Never mind mate, it’s just as well.
 
We call everyone new around here ‘Jack.’
 
Isn’t that right, John?”

His friend said his words through a loud, wet belch, “Yeah, sure, Jack.”

The first Brit turned back to Arthur and said, “Don’t mind that shite head. Your name’s gonna be ‘Black Jack’.
 
What d'ya think about that, mate?”

Arthur didn’t see any choice but to accept his new moniker cheerfully.
 
He replied, “Yeah, sure mate, that’s great.”
 
He asked,
 
“What’s your name?”

         
The first Brit perked up at Arthur’s interest in him; and he replied,
 
“Groggy Jack, mate! And that snot there is Happy Jack.”
 
He laughed, looked around, and in a low, cheeky voice, said,
 
“And tonight you’ll find out why!”
 
He laughed again as he continued stirring the steaming, odorous lard.

                                               
II

“Work’s almost finished, Black Jack!” exclaimed Groggy Jack.
 
He turned to his other, less gregarious partner, and said, “Get the wash water ready, Happy Jack!”
 
The other man snorted and grunted a mumbled agreement.
 
“You can start getting ready for your bath, Black Jack.”

Arthur hesitated with uncertainty, looking around the beach.
 
The roving watch told each party the time was just past six. Arthur could see several men from each group putting down their tools and standing fast.
 
No whales had come in that day.
 
It was early in the season, and the migratory whales would arrive when they wished.
 
Arthur was lucky to see some of the waning warm weather of the South Pacific. Noticing the sun stood unusually high in the evening sky, Arthur was grateful to feel the last bit of Fall before the cold, wet winter set in.

With no whales being dragged in from the sea, and no new ships arriving, the men were free for the night.
 
Arthur could see that the men of the beach were in a festive mood, even though he had heard throughout the day that riotous celebration normally followed a large catch.

“What are you doing, Black Jack?”
 
Groggy asked.
 
“Get those clothes off, and get ready.”

Arthur paused for another moment. He scanned the beach further, and saw men engaged in happy chatter undressing unceremoniously.
 
Also, many women, both white and brown-skinned, had begun to move among the groups and collect the discarded garments, seemingly indifferent to the natural state of the nude whalers.
 
Arthur finally began to undress.

“Mate, what the hell is wrong with that uniform?”
 
demanded Groggy in a joking manner.
 
“Did they issue the cabin boy’s spare to you?”
 
he asked.

“I am the Cabin Boy.” Said Black Jack.
 
He didn’t fully understand the sleight behind Groggy’s comment.
 
“I think I grew a little bit on the trip.” Said Black Jack.

“A little bit?” exclaimed Groggy.
 
“Mate, your hem is three inches above your ankle!
 
Your shirt is above your belly hole.
 
You look like one of those Arabian dancers!” he squealed.

Black Jack was embarrassed.
 
“I suppose so.”
 
he said.
 
He had gone through a tremendous growth spurt during the four-month journey.
 
Just under six-feet tall when he signed on in the harbor, he had not noticed a change at first during his adjustment to rigorous sea life.
 
Underway for some time, he had noticed that his bunk seemed to be getting rather cramped; and he began to regularly bump his head on some of the higher passageway doors.
 

The ship’s doctor at first attributed the cabin boy’s awkwardness to inexperience and a case of ‘getting his sea legs on’; however, Arthur’s elongation progressed so rapidly that it became apparent to the naked eye of the physician.
 
As Arthur stood towering over him one day midway through the voyage, the medicine man exclaimed, “Good God, boy, you’re becoming a giant!”
 
The doctor became so fascinated with Arthur as a special case that he dedicated additional time and care to studying the Captain’s personal attendant.
 
He eventually concluded that the added foods in a former slave’s diet; the rigorous exertion of operating a ship on open seas at full sail; and the healthy sun and salty air had all contributed to Arthur’s explosive growth.

The extra attention paid by the doctor had its influence on the rest of the crew, who before long elevated Arthur to a state of notoriety.
 
In the galley during mealtime, crewmen would openly ask what he was eating, and how much of it; and lively discussion would break out around Arthur concerning what he would do all day.
 
When the weather was good, seamen would crowd around him topside to carry on question-and-answer sessions, good-heartedly needling him on various subjects ranging from abolition in America to zealots in Zaire.
 
Now standing well over six-feet tall and black as the whales they hunted, Arthur Alesworth was an authority figure. Most of the sailors respected the young man and his opinions on everything, much more so than they had in Rio.
 

On balmy nights, Arthur would bring out his mouth harp on the forecastle and play tremendous melodies to the delight of the Midnight crew.
 
His popularity grew to match his proportions; and life on the ship began to revolve around him.
 
In turn, he was pleased to be accepted for who he really was, not being seen as solely a man with black skin.

His growth in stature and prominence in such a short period had not gone unnoticed by the First Mate; and it had certainly not escaped the attention of the Captain.
 
One night as the Captain sat pouring over his charts, he heard the melodious playing of a magical sounding instrument streaming over the deck and down through the open cabin windows.
 
He stood to listen, and to watch the porpoises frolic in the moonlit wake of the ship.
 
He saw the water glowing and the eerie shine of the schools of fish gliding just beneath the surface through flashing mobs of microbes.
 
He took out his sextant and pointed it at the cloudless, starry, indigo sky.
 
Diamond-laced sapphire
, he thought, as the singing of the night crew harmonized with the mysterious pied piping.

The crew sang:

                  
 
“Come all you whale men who are cruising for Sperm,

                  
Come all of you seamen who have rounded Cape Horn,

                  
For our Captain has told us, and he says out of hand,

                  
There are a thousand whales off the coast of New Zealand!”

         
The Captain broke out his best brandy, and sipped a soothing glassful. His trance continued as he listened to the sailors singing, and he congratulated himself once again on a successful rounding of The Horn. Now, it was just a straight shot to New Zealand following the Tropic of Capricorn.
 
The ease and serenity of it all nearly lulled him to sleep. He lost track of time. After what he thought was half an hour, the Captain peered through his sextant again. He saw a familiar star staring back at him through the lens. It seemed oddly out of place. He put down the viewer and quickly fiddled with his astrolabe. He scribbled an equation on his chart.
 

Hold on
, he thought,
we’re off course!
 
The Captain cried out for help, but no response came from the adjacent cabins.
 
The Captain rang the First Mate’s bell furiously.
 
Still no response.
 
He yelled out again.
 
All he heard was the continuous caroling of the crew growing louder, and the confounding sound of a harmonica playing the same chorus over and over.

Blast!
Who is playing that infernal instrument?
He wondered, as he raced from his cabin, down the passageway to the first ladder.
 
Bouncing off bulkheads as he ran, he scrambled topside and stood fuming at mid ship.
 
He lurked there in the dark unnoticed for nearly a minute, until he could stand being ignored no more amid the frivolous music.
 

“Harper!”
 
He yelled at the top of his lungs. No reaction.
 
Again, “You there, Harper!
 
Cease and desist!”

All at once, the music and singing stopped as the First Mate wheeled around, falling from his perch on the forecastle and dropping his mug of grog. He picked himself up, and shouted the customary, “Attention on deck!”
 
All hands stood transfixed where they were and saluted the Captain.

“Mate!
 
Are you aware that we are thirty degrees off course?”
 
The Captain demanded.
 
The Captain shot a scathing look at the Helmsman.
 
“And where is the damned Lookout?”
 
He asked, craning his neck to the empty crow’s nest above.
 
“Helmsman, bring her right hard thirty degrees, then steady as she goes.”
 
He said sternly.
 
“Lookout, go back up the mast, now!” he commanded.
 
“First Mate, below decks with me.” he snapped, as he walked back toward the mid-ship ladder.
 

Approaching the rails, he strained to see who held the mouth harp. Spying the shiny object in Arthur’s hand, he shouted, “And no more of that god-awful music!
 
If I hear one more note coming from that organ tonight, there will never be another liberty in Rio again.
 
That is all!”
 
The Captain turned on his heels and stormed below decks, the First Mate close behind.
 
The only sounds that followed were the methodical clicks of the Captain’s rear cabin windows locking down, and then a muffled one-man storm that raged with gale force for half an hour. Then, silence.