Rich Man's Coffin (9 page)

         
Arthur remembered the First Mate returning topside later, apparently angry with him, and curtly telling Arthur that he could not play his mouth organ on watch ever again.
 
From that moment forward, Arthur’s treatment at the hands of the First Mate only became worse. The ill will seemed to emanate from the Captain, who began eyeing Arthur with disdain. He became increasingly harsh in his treatment of his cabin boy.
 
The crew remained loyal to Arthur, and from that night on he had a new handle to pay honor to the special event.
 
His mates referred to Arthur as
The Harper
, in humorous reverence of the Captain’s outburst.

In casual conversation, it was shortened simply to Harper. Sadly, the new name became a double-edged sword, being seized upon by the First Mate and the Captain in a much less flattering way.
 
When they called him
The Harper
, it was meant to serve as a reminder to him and everyone else that his actions that fateful night had been unprofessional, and that he had put the entire crew and ship in danger.
 
So adamant was the Captain about making the black mark stick, that he altered the ship's records to reflect his decision. The ship's log came to read, ‘Cabin Boy- Arthur
Harper
Alesworth.’

“Get naked, Black Jack!”
 
Groggy snapped.
 
Arthur reeled back to the present.
 
“T’isn’t anything that these
ladies
haven’t seen before, mate!”
 
Groggy said.
 
He placed a small pot of seawater on an open corner of the coals, and stripped his clothes off.
 
He continued, “I’ll show you how we make our soap.”
 
He scooped out a handful of warm blubber near the top of the try-pot, and held it in his cupped palm.
 
As it cooled, he sprinkled a white powder on it with his free hand, followed by a pinch of sand.
 
He plunged it into a pot of cold water, and when it had become hard, he scooped it out and dropped it into the hot salt water.
 
Black Jack watched as it sank to the bottom, streaming greasy trails behind it without dissolving completely.
 
After a few moments, it began to bubble, and then it slowly floated to the surface, fizzing vigorously.
 

Groggy grabbed it and began to lather his body.
 
“Better than what the Queen herself has in the royal toilet.”
 
He exclaimed. “Just needs a touch of lavender!”
 
He then rinsed himself clean by pouring a jar of cold, fresh water over his head.
 
Arthur repeated his ritual.
 

When they had finished washing up, a woman came by and left a neatly folded stack of clean clothes sorted by size, for each man in the group.
 
“Reminds me of what they gave us in prison.” remarked Groggy.
 
“Eh, Happy?”
 

The other Brit grunted.
 
The men donned their duds, pants first.
 
Arthur noticed that the material was much like the cotton cloth back home; but it was slightly stiffer and not as soft.
 
It was the color of old bone, and it had a very crisp, clean smell.
 
In addition, all the articles were ample and loose; and Arthur began to feel very relaxed and comfortable in them.
 

“Don’t bother putting your boots back on, mate!” said Groggy.
 
“Do you like to eat?”

                                                         
III

         
The table of food laid out on the deck of the grog shop up the hill from the beach was a feast for Black Jack’s eyes.
 
He looked over the steaming dishes as the women of the whaling station carried out more food continuously.
 
Nearest to him was a large platter full of boiled giant crayfish, reflecting the colors of the sunset in their shells.
 
Black Jack had seen smaller crayfish around the creeks in Mississippi, and he had eaten Boston lobsters up north before setting sail.
 
These crustaceans were much larger than American lobsters with all the characteristic anomalies of the more exotic South Pacific crayfish.
 
They were colored like Indian corn, with bright oranges, yellows, shades of brown, and occasional specks of purple and blue.
 

Each of them must contain a pound of meat
, he thought.
 
Next were the many kinds of shellfish:
 
The green-lipped mussels, which the sailors called
sea ears
, were the size of a man’s hand. There were also scallops, oysters, and giant clams.
 
There was Abalone, which the natives called Paua, with its glassy rainbow shell.
 
There were fish of all types and sizes, none smaller than three pounds.
 
Further along, there were birds. The most notable to Black Jack being the Takahe, which he thought looked like a black chicken.
 
Down the table further was the mutton, coming from the few sheep that the white men had carried along the year before.
 
There was a whole, roasted wild pig, the kind that roamed freely around the surrounding hills, and it had a wild flavor.
 
At that point, Black Jack saw where the fruits and vegetables began.
 
It seemed that the workers were most eager to share with him their biggest favorites:
 
Boiled potatoes and cabbage.
 
After stuffing himself with seafood, meats, and vegetables, Black Jack tried a fruit that resembled a cucumber. It had a very rich, creamy, sweet flavor.
 
The natives called it a Fejoha. Black Jack called it dessert.

Of course, Black Jack could not eat everything on one plate; and so, much to the delight of his female hosts, and in response to the good-natured prodding of his newfound mates, he made several visits back to the table.
 
The men ate and drank for a couple of hours, each enjoying at least four platefuls. Their voracity for eating did not diminish for the duration of the meal.
 
After a time, many men began to smoke wild tobacco in their pipes peacefully while the women cleaned up the remains. Most of the group had wandered off to their respective huts as the sun disappeared.
 
The sailors who did not want to stay and drink for the evening began to push off and row back to their ships.

Groggy Jack, reclining on a whale backbone, rolled over heavily on his bum toward Black Jack.
 
He groaned with a smile, held his distended belly with one hand, a makeshift toothpick with the other, and said, “So, you think you’ll stay for a little grog, mate?”

         
Black Jack, equally content in his bloated state, sat up from lying on a whale tailbone, and said, “Better get on back to the ship, mate.
 
The Captain will be ‘spectin me.”

“Bah!”
 
Said Groggy.
 
“The cook will have his nightcap ready just the same.
 
After ten, he’ll be dreaming about the Queen.
 
Won’t even know you’ve gone missin’.”
 
Groggy assured Black Jack, as he leaned on one elbow and sucked his sliver of wood between his teeth packed with meat.

“I don’t know.” said Black Jack.

“Stay!
 
You’ll have a great time meeting all the blokes.
 
Won’t he, Happy!” he said, as he nudged his shipmate.

“Mmm, yeah, sure.”
 
said Happy Jack.

“See!
 
Happy thinks it’s a good idea.
 
And you don’t want to make him
unhappy
, do you?”
 
Groggy asked, as his eyes grew wide and he paused, waiting for Black Jack to get his joke. Then he began to laugh.

“All right, but I’m not a big drinker of spirits.”
 
Said Black Jack.

“This isn’t spirits, mate, its grog!” said Groggy.
 
He turned to Happy Jack nudging him again. “Right, cobber? A bit of the Kill Devil, am I right?”
 
He burst into laughter again, repeatedly jabbing his mates.

         
Later that night, the three men ambled out of the sand and bone yard. They walked up the wooden deck and into the grog shop.
 
It had the same air as a British pub, with a bar at the back, benches along the sides, and high, round tables down the middle.
 
There was a door to the kitchen behind the bar.
 
At the bar was a single tap that only served one beverage:
 
Grog.

“The first shout is on me!” shouted Groggy Jack as he bounded away.
 
The shopkeeper reached for the brass handle of the tap. Groggy stood quietly in awe. His eyes strolled from the foamy, brown liquid leaking into the mug, up the cloth hose snaking its way from the back of the tap, to the rafters above where a large oak barrel lay on its side.
 
A wonderful invention
, he thought. He envied the man who had thought of it, while silently congratulating him all the same.
 
He paid the shopkeeper, and carried three full mugs back to the bench along the wall to his waiting mates.
 
“Ah, I love this place!” exclaimed Groggy, putting his thirsty lips to the head of his mug.

Black Jack, unsure if Groggy was referring to the pub or the whaling station, followed suit with his first sip.
 
It tasted like distilled molasses.
 
He had sampled something similar behind the old-timers’ shack, after they had drunk all the good corn sour mash or all the potato liquor.
 
Molasses mash was the lowest form of alcohol, if his memory served him right, that a man could reduce himself to.
 
Made from the cane used to feed livestock, it was boiled down only after the winter stores of corn and potatoes had been run through. The men folk would draw straws for it, so reluctant were they to lower themselves.
 

Some of the slaves from the Caribbean had sworn that they could take molasses to rum in only a few days in the still. But all of Arthur’s family had given up the fight and learned the hard way that the cattle molasses of Mississippi was a far cry from the quality sugarcane rum of the sunny southern seas.
 
Everyone knew that you could never thin it with water enough to rid it of that sickening burnt-butter flavor without losing the sugar needed to start the liquor coming.
 
This process produced a swill that was thick, brown, bubbly, unabashedly bitter, and disgustingly sweet all at the same time.
 
It could gag a maggot, and still not get a man drunk after downing a gallon.
 
A few days in the still made no difference.
 
As the alcohol increased, so did the sludge; so that the work required to make one cup of spirits was not worth the effort.
 
What alcohol did come out always reeked with vile fumes; and no man nor beast could be found whose stomach could hold the brew, lest they be mad.

“Pretty damn good, eh?”
 
Goaded Groggy, as he elbowed his two mates seated on each side.
 
“You oughta hear how they make this stuff.
 
Simply amazing for mere sailors, I’ll tell you what!”

“I can’t imagine.”
 
Said Black Jack.

The three of them engaged in idle chatter as the evening progressed.
 
Groggy did most of the talking, introducing Black Jack to his other mates from his ship and around the village. Happy Jack just sat for the most part, offering the occasional grunt of agreement.
 
The three of them set off around the shop, mingling with different groups separately and together, eventually drifting back to their seats along the wall.
 
Black Jack was surprised to notice that his ghastly brew was nearing its bottom. His mates were close behind.

“My shout.”
 
Happy Jack said, as he gathered the group’s glasses and headed off to the bar.
 
Black Jack was relieved, as he had no money. Despite all of his long and hard service on the boat, he still had not been paid.

“What do you think of Happy?”
 
Groggy asked.

“He’s all right, I reckon.
 
A bit quiet, but I like him enough.”
 
Black Jack said.

“He’s a poofter, you know.”
 
Groggy said.