Rich Man's Coffin (36 page)

         
Black Jack, on the other hand, had the peace and quiet of the big valley to look forward to. His orders were quite simple:
 
He was to report the intentions of the white men he encountered to the Maori.
 
Robulla was amazed at the difference in the white man's attitude toward a brown-skinned Maori and his friend, Black Jack White.
 
To any Pakeha first meeting him, he appeared as a simple Negro posing no threat of intelligence or interference.
 
To the Maori, familiar or not with his conquests, he represented a formidable black giant with incredible strength.
 
To the whalers, he posed an enigma:
 
Since first returning to the stations as a Maori interpreter, none of them had been quite certain as to his exact origin.
 
For the sake of the mission, however, the choice of identity was clear.
 
Black Jack White would be the humble ex-slave from America with a helpful attitude toward the gullible and unsuspecting settler.
 
It was a beautiful plan, agreed the two.
 
Over their farewell feast, they smoked and laughed about it until their sides split.

II

         
So once again, and not since being in the crow's nest on the high seas, Black Jack settled into the role of the lonesome Lookout.
 
He found that he truly enjoyed his silent solitude.
 
Unlike his cold night scrounging mussels at White's Bay so long ago, here his biggest fear was the unknown number of years lying ahead of him. He began counting on New Year’s Day, 1844.

         
He started life simply again.
 
All he needed was food, water, and shelter for one man.
 
He soon found that the task of procuring three meals a day was enough to keep him busy from dawn to dusk.
 
January would still be warm enough for planting a vegetable garden, he thought, but without the beginnings of a plot cleared, he had to rely on picking the local plants for a while.
 
He was back to duck and fern.
 
He did not have a gun.
 
He relied on his spear.
 
He broke up the soft, dry dirt around his hut with the hoe during the hot, sunny days.
 
He huddled around the stove at night, letting its low light crack the darkness only when he chucked in an odd faggot or two of wood.
 
He found that he liked the darkness.
 
With open doors and windows, his cabin became one with the outside air. He found that his eyes would adjust to any level of low light.
 
He took delight in the images that played in his mind, their being brighter by far than any candle or lamp.
 
He had only one book, his Bible, but he couldn't read it.
 
So what else was there to do, he wondered, than to reflect fondly upon the interesting events of his wonderful life until he became sleepy?

         
One of his early projects was to build a real bed.
 
He had always wanted one; but time and fashion had not permitted it at the whaling station.
 
Now he had the saw, the wood, and heaps of time to construct his dream bed.
 
A simple frame of planks, posts, and slats came about. For comfort he used a standard flax-leaf mat.
 
In later days, he accumulated enough feathers and flax fluff to fashion a proper mattress.

         
Most days were dry and clear in summertime, though he rarely sweat.
 
The heat would sharpen and spike on him if he weren't careful, but it was always mild in comparison to the humid swelter of the Mississippi Delta.
 
Black Jack reveled in the arid heat of the day and the cool of night.
 
At the age of thirty-two, he felt like a kid again.
 
He had seen the Master's children playing games such as frontier soldiers and Indians, and he had lamented his inability to join in and enjoy their sport.
 
Now that he was self-appointed sentry, scout, and scoundrel, he was free to play with himself all day long if he wished to do so.
 
He was always aware of the seriousness of his command post, never allowing his amusements to distract him from his duties.
 
His job, quite simply, was to be right where he was, day after day.

         
There was a Maori trail that ran alongside the entire length of the Tua Marina stream through the valley.
 
A smaller creek branched off toward Black Jack's hut a stone’s throw away.
 
That is where he spent his time, from the moment the sun came up to the moment it set.
 
He would wander the short distance between his hut and the main stream.
 
It was plain logic:
 
Anyone traveling for the purpose of business would most likely come during daylight along the main trail down the stream.
 
Black Jack was like a guard marching back and forth periodically throughout his long days.
 
He had a clear line of sight to the creek from his hut, making it easy for him to keep an eye out.
 
A month went by before he actually saw anyone, a Maori fishing party.
 
As far as keeping tabs on the white man, he thought, his life was going to be easy.

         
Sadly, the long days and nights of solitude began to take their toll.
 
As summer stretched on, the incessant song of the cicada was sometimes the only salvation of his sanity.
 
He had purposely relinquished all vices, leaving behind all alcohol and tobacco at the whaling village.
 
At night he found that he could only play his mouth harp so long before the torment of boredom lighted on his shoulder.
 
The activities of day and night remained separate.
 
In the mornings, chopping wood could entertain him for hours, the same being true for picking flax in the afternoons.
 
But neither of these had any place in the night. That is when his mind would become fully awake.

         
Staring at the stars became a passion.
 
Dazzled by their brilliance on the clearest of nights, he could entertain himself with their beauty until the sun came up.
 
He had learned a few constellations from the sailors. More than the static stellar features, it was the blazing trails of meteors and the unidentifiable flickering objects that captured his attention.
 
On gloomy nights, his mood was affected by the weather; and he would succumb to bouts of melancholy.

         
With plenty of time to think at night, he though about the child whom he would probably never know. His child would no longer be a child, being the same age now as he had been when he made his escape.
 
The child was still a slave, most likely, he thought.
 
Black Jack would sob briefly at the thought, and then he would take heart knowing that his child might also one day break the bonds of slavery.
 
He had told everyone where he was going, thought Black Jack, unlike his father. It was possible that if he had a boy, his son might find his way around the world whaling.
 
Black Jack became fascinated with this thought. It bolstered his spirits often. He wondered if Lalani had remarried and found happiness, or if she was still waiting for him.
It’s too late to go back
, he thought.
Or maybe not
.

         
During the day, he was all about work. If time allowed, he would be inventive.
 
His first creation was a windmill.
 
He sawed two boards of equal length, whittled them with his knife, and warped them with steam.
 
Then he nailed them together at the center. He fixed them to a crude wooden axle, nailed them to a post, and set it in the ground.
 
The simple machine delighted him when it spun in the breeze. Unfortunately, it performed no work and held no value beyond its entertainment.
 
He knew people harnessed the wind in different ways around the world. He had learned on the ship, but he wasn't sure how to make his windmill do work for him.
 
His next discovery involved the Sun.
 
He found that if he left the copper cistern in the sun all day, then by evening he would have enough hot water for a bath without having to heat individual pots and porting them from the stove.
 
One day, he had the bright idea to build a platform on his roof and allow the cistern to sit there, collecting rainwater and sun as they came.
 
In that way, he turned the sudden shifts in the weather to his advantage.
 
It gave him hope that he was no longer at the mercy of the erratic climate. He began to feel that he was a deserving master of his beautiful surroundings. Nature was rewarding his strong kindness, he thought.

         
Then the rains came. With them came a sense of terrible loneliness.

III

         
Sometimes it rains so long I think it’s never gonna stop.
 
It rained in Mississippi, but not like this.
 
Never like this.
 
It rains until I think it won't stop and then it does for a little while and I think I've got lots to do but then I remember I don't.
 
I don't ever remember being this lonely though.
 
Sometimes I think about going out in the rain and getting things done but then I realize it’s not worth it.
 
Not with all the time I've got.
 
I forget that I don't work for no one no more.
 
Just myself.
 
As good as that sounds, sometimes that's harder than working all day for the Master.

         
But I find ways to stay busy.
 
You better believe that.
 
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever get back. I don’t have enough for ship’s passage back home. That’s all right, I'll find plenty to do here.
 
Plenty to eat, plenty of sleep, and I might even teach myself to read that Bible that keeps starin' at me over there.
 
If I learn to read, then maybe I can write my story.
 
That way maybe someday somebody will remember me.
 
As a person, a free man, someone who shaped his own destiny with daring acts of bravery.
 
Yes sir, a real legend.

         
Right now, though, I've got the sadness something terrible.
 
This place gets fiercely muddy outside all around, and I can't stand to go out and even rustle up something to eat.
 
I laid in some firewood for days like this, but it’s almost gone.
 
I boarded up the windows to keep the rain out, but the damp just seeps right through and into my bones.
 
Sometimes, the only way I can get warm is to stay in bed under my wool blanket.
 
If I run out of wood, though, I'll have to start sawing pieces from my bed, and then soon I'll be back to sleeping on the floor.
 
If I run out of tinder, I might have to use some pages from the Bible; and I really don't want to do that.

         
Soon, it's gonna be gettin' colder than this.
 
This far from the sea, I know it frosts pretty bad some mornings. I ain't lookin' forward to that.
 
I don't think the stream will freeze up, but you never know.
 
I have seen some mighty snows fall on these mountains 'round here.
 
That's why the Maori stay down by the water mostly.
 
It’s all right, though, I'll make it just fine by myself.
 
I pray it stops raining one of these days.
 
Or at least if it’s gonna rain so much, it could thunder and lightning as well.
 
It's just this steady, soggy, blowing rain that makes my head feel so musty.
 
If it wasn't for the threat of the water comin' into the floor of my hut to keep me on edge, I guess I'd just curl up into a ball and die.
 
I didn't bring no coffee either; and I thought I was sick of blubber stew, but oh, how a hot bowl of that would warm my soul right now.
 
I'm like a moody child, with no parents to discipline me.
 
I don't even sleep regular when it’s like this.
 
I find myself wakin' at odd times, and even my soul feels tired.
 
I think I might need a companion, and then I think it’s not worth it.
 
Most times now, I don't even feel the urge to be with no one, not even women folk.
 
Thinkin' about the way it used to be with Kumari, and then thinkin' about the way she is now makes me sick.
 
At least I don't have to worry about the way things could've been between us.
 
Or else these drops I hear on my roof would be my tears.
 
Next sunny day, I'm gonna gather as much flax as I can so on days like these I can start spinning yarn like Mama used to.
 
Me, the great warrior chief, in exile doing housework!
 
Maybe I'll just make enough yarn to fashion a rope and hang myself.
 
Ha, ha, I jest, perhaps a bit too much.
 
And how many years was my agreement with Robulla?