Rich Man's Coffin Read online

  “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.

  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.

  IV

  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.

  “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.