Rich Man's Coffin (41 page)

Rounding the bend, Black Jack saw a lawn spreading from the banks of the river, forming a promenade up a gentle slope to the main street of the town.
 
On the grassy flat near the foot of the rise grew a big tree shading a bench.
 
A wooden staircase climbed from beside the long seat to the boulevard above.
 
Upstream further on the far side sat only wild lonely bush.
 
A small dock walked across the green away from the steps to stand in the water.

Shadowy men loomed ready on an upper railing like perched Magpies anxious to swoop. They called out to Black Jack, elated to see the seedy cargo.
 
With first case in arms, he was shown to the hotel directly across the street. It was as red as the box he ported.
 
He quickly learned that a thirsty town without a sawmiller would sooner build with any wood than wait.
 
So the 'Gin Palace' as it came to be called was put together using the ruddy rough slats of the liquor boxes.
 
The hotel became a standing tribute to the constructive influence of hard spirits upon a wanting mob; and possibly a plausible answer to the mystery of the manpower behind the Great Pyramids.
 
There never were better brewers, in fact, than the mighty Egyptians with their vast plains of grain along the winding Nile.
 
Why is it that water, wheat, and a little yeast cause men to rise so high?
 
Black Jack’s mother used to ask.
It is for their inevitable fall!
She would tell him.

Black Jack was done unloading by dinner. After a twilight meal with a gin and tonic, specialty drink of the house, he took a walk about.
 
He headed west up the main street toward the town center.
 
Along the way, every open door was another hotel pub or grog shop, each with its ample array of particular patrons. They were all engaged in various stages of grumbling, laughing, talking, and drinking, their poses being frozen for an instant as his eyes passed the entry way.
 
Amidst the aimless and uniform babble, he heard certain phrases rise above the drone that darted his ears:
 
Words such as, 'There's a queer fellow'; and 'you can tell by the way he walks'; or 'there's that man'; and 'he’s always alone'; and so on down the street.
 
The clock struck seven as he reached the square.
 
Given three routes, he chose left and carried on with his grand tour of the Beaver.
 
The first building around the block was another hotel chock full of loyal customers. Rounding the corner came the street that ran along the back of his hotel.
 
He noticed that at this hour, no one else seemed to be walking along the avenues.
 
They were all either in the pubs or on horses or horse-drawn carriages.
 
People glared at him as if he were odd. He wondered if it had anything to do with his walking alone.

In fact, it seemed to him that for such a small town, it had an unusually large number of horses and carriages.
 
The entire village's populace, he thought, must be riding around the handful of streets at this evening hour.
 
He watched them. No one was performing any particular business, not even a perfunctory social visit with other passersby.
 
Everyone appeared to be riding, riding, riding; to no end.
 
The constant stares from people who were going nowhere in circles began to annoy him.

During the afternoon, the town had been quite peaceful, he recalled.
 
He had seen people walking from shop to shop in normal fashion, performing the ordinary business of the day.
 
No one, save for the odd bugger, frequented any of the hotel pubs; and hardly anyone carried on in a more than a sublime manner.
 
Now, it seemed, everyone was attempting to make as much noise as possible.
 
In particular, Black Jack noticed a certain device that everyone had placed conspicuously upon the reigns of their steeds.
 
It was all a bizarre spectacle to him, from the single dusty old filly being ridden by a boy in rags to the richest of covered coaches occupied by squires and ladies. Everyone had placed a large cowbell just behind the ear of his horses.
 
Completely baffling to Black Jack was the fact that of the hundreds of bells that he saw, they were all identical; as if one merchant alone had been fortunate enough to import the singular item in bulk.
 
As base and common as it struck him as being, every single rider, poor or wealthy, made it a point to drive his animal as hard as possible with the crop or whip on a frantic charge down each stretch of street.
 
This caused the bells to clang terribly, for no other reason than the sake of the sound. The drivers acted oblivious to the racket, while their poor horses seemed wholly dismayed.

         
The entire strange scene thoroughly vexed Black Jack and made him weary. He turned left again, heading down the far side of his hotel.
 
Along that street he passed the constable station.
 
He wondered if there were any laws concerning the disturbing of the peace, or illegal use of equipment on animals used for transport.
 
Black Jack could see the officers of the law sitting motionless behind the glass of their building, settled in for another quiet night in the Beaver.
 
So much for stopping the bells
, he thought, plodding on.
 
Maybe it’s me who is crazy.
 
He closed his eyes to get perspective on the ruckus. The constant cacophony and tumultuous din of the frivolous devices made him angry.
 
He opened his eyes and walked on, disgusted that such a beautiful town at sunset was marred by a mob of noisemakers.

         
Around the next corner, the avenue stretched along the river winding its way quietly out of town.
 
Black Jack could see the shade tree where his boat was tied. As he approached, he thought he saw a familiar face in the corner grog shop closest to the stream. In his agitated state, he did not bother to stop.
 
Once upstairs in his room, he promptly closed the large window overlooking the street.
 
He was in room thirteen, the last one down the hallway to the left.
 
The room overlooked the river and the dock.

He buried his head beneath a pillow. After a time, he looked and saw that it was growing darker outside.
 
He moved a chair to the large window and watched the people of the town again.
 
The steady stream of rabble rousers had dwindled to a handful of roving groups. He opened the window.
 
The union of silence with a cool breeze remained unbroken for several seconds.
 
Oil lamps glittered above the street, with charming buildings basking in their glow.
 
Blue twilight frosted with silver flecks softly washed over dusky distant hills.
 
Black Jack inhaled the scene and held it for one refreshing moment.
 
Then, around the corner they came.

Barreling down the boulevard, bells clanging, the parties in the coaches were oblivious to the natural beauty around them.
 
They seemed unaware, he thought, of just about everything.
 
Around and around the town they went, in clusters, pairs, and alone.
 
Sometimes they would follow one another in trains, other times spreading out to canvas the surrounding streets separately.
 
Groups would occasionally stop to congregate and engage in casual conversation.
 
These associations fell along apparent lines of financial status, owing to the similar decor and condition of the carriages that huddled together.
 
Other times, young and old, commoner and citizen of class alike would share a dusty parking lot.
 
All of the people were merely content, in Black Jack's eye, to commingle and pass the evening in a singular meaningless manner for one popular purpose: The trivial pursuit of commotion.
 
It was a race to gain victory over utter and complete boredom at the urban hub of the middle of nowhere; and everyone was the odds-on favorite to show.
 
That is not to say, however, that it did not make for an interesting spectacle.

As Black Jack sat watching from his window above the hotel entrance, a regal carriage with very well-to-do passengers called a halt to its endless chariot race and stopped out front.
 
In the coach was a party of finely dressed men and women, forming two couples.
 
One young man stepped down and helped his lady companion out with much chivalry, as the other pair remained seated.
 
Then, their mischievous antics began to tell their age.
 
Their patting and pawing, slapping and teasing, along with their constant giggling, let Black Jack know that they were probably well less than twenty.
 
The other couple in the carriage became fully consumed with one another, as the standing pair waited for the driver to unload the young lady's bags.
 
Two Maori men, attendants of the hotel whom Black Jack had seen earlier, stepped up graciously to assist with the handling of the young aristocrats' arrival.
 
Black Jack strained an ear to gather what was going on.

"No, Love, you know what Mum and Dad would say.
 
Besides, you'll be fine here.
 
It's only for one night; and you won't be sleeping that long.
 
We’ve still got the rest of the evening!" said the young man, following with a peck on her lips.

She held his hands clasped to her bosom. "I know, Charles, but it’s so hard when we're not together.
 
It will be even more difficult now that we're right in the same town.
 
I can't wait 'til we're married!"

"I know, Love.
 
Soon we'll be together every night.
 
Now c'mon.
 
Run along and drop these bags in the room.
 
We’ve got celebrating to do!"

She turned briskly and followed her luggage in the hands of the houseboys.
 
Black Jack watched as the young man, top hat in hand, waited anxiously in the street for his fiancée to return.
 
Black Jack heard the sounds in the hall as the bustling entourage stormed up to the door next to his.
 
He heard the two men conversing about the room and fumbling with the lock.
 
The jingle of the skeleton key sounded success, and the door was booted open.
 
He heard the clumsy, large window slide open, the bags hit the floor, and the men march back down the hall.
 
Black Jack saw the young man wave and smile as the young lady yelled something excitedly from the open window next to his.
 
Then he heard the door slam, the key turn, and feet softly and swiftly move down the hallway.
 
A moment later she appeared in the street by her future husband's side; and they were off again.

Black Jack did not see them for some time.
 
Being more than summer lovers, he expected them to slip away to some secluded spot and sit beneath a tree; or perhaps find a dim corner of one of the nice eateries in town.
 
However, soon enough, around the corner they came.
 
Rambling along, with other horses and riders alongside, they hooted and hollered as they held up bottled libations and imbibed unashamedly.
 
He saw them go around two or three times in rapid succession; and then they disappeared from the lineup of hopeless contestants.
 
Perhaps an hour or more later, they reappeared, louder and visibly less sober than before.
 
They truly did seem to be having a grand time, thought Black Jack, if even in such petite style.
 
Who am I to judge?
He wondered.
At least they have one another.

At one point later in the evening, the street cleared altogether; and Black Jack was free once again to enjoy the silent beauty of the Beaver Town.
 
He counted to thirty, and amazingly no sound interrupted his serenity.
 
Then suddenly, from across the street, an entirely frightening and unfamiliar sound erupted atop one of the opposing buildings.
 
It emanated from one spot; and as he scanned the darkness for the source of the ruckus, Black Jack's eyes settled upon a stream of white steam and black smoke being pumped from a gray box with wheels and pulleys attached.
 
Black Jack had heard of the new machines called coal-steam engines which were capable of doing the work of many windmills; however, he had no idea what the function of this particular one was, or why it should be in operation after eleven o'clock at night.
 
He only knew that it was one more horrific disturbance of the peace in a place where he thought that there should be absolutely none.
 
Them horses belong on a racetrack
, he thought.
 
And that damn engine belongs in the cellar, not on the roof!

The horse-and-carriages began to dwindle in number and intensity of activity, and tranquility began to return to the town in longer lengths shortly after the center clock struck midnight.
 
It was around then as well that he saw them coming down the street.
 
Pulling up in front, the familiar foursome seemed finished.
 
Visibly inebriated, the young man struggled to stagger out of the carriage and remain standing.
 
His lovely partner, also affected by the night's alcohol, tumbled into his arms and planted her unsteady feet.
 
The two embraced one another for dear life as the sober driver stepped into the lobby to retrieve some assistance.
 
The Maori gentlemen from before gingerly approached the couple as the driver remounted his perch and took the reigns in eager anticipation of reaching home.
 
Black Jack heard the Maori men and the young man talking.