Rich Man's Coffin

by K Martin Gardner

  He looked her up and down sitting in her pretty house gown. “What is it, Squeaker, that you people have against me?” Tears began to well in his eyes.

  Her heart leapt at the sound of her nickname. She knew of no whalers whom her husband had told it to. “I’m sorry, you are going to have to leave now! The children are asleep.”

  His weepy frown puffed into a blustery, crimson grimace as he grabbed her hair. “Why don’t you like me?”

  No one heard the screams of her or the children, nor the blood splattering inside as the rain swept in from the sea and washed the outside of the wooden walls of the shop. Later, as he enjoyed a calm smoke under the emerging moon and clearing night sky, he watched the shimmering rainbow streams of whale oil slip from the sand into the soothing, dark waves of tranquil Jackie’s Bay.

  Chapter 21

  “Who goes there?” Asked Cook in a sleepy voice. He rubbed his bleary eyes with sandy hands. He struggled to peer up at the silhouette of the large, looming figure backlit by the blazing moon. The form stood on an earthen rise, accentuated by the accompanying shadows of crooked trees sharing the rays of the celestial spotlight in which the feathered phantom stood.

  The darkness spoke. “I think I can help you. Come with me.” Said the figure in a low, forceful voice.

  Cook gathered his shabby self from the sand, and staggered behind the specter. He asked, “Why are you dressed like a Maori? Where are we going? What time is it? The man silently motioned for him to follow. He led the disoriented whaler to the shimmering shore.

  The form said, “The clock in the shop just counted the Apostles. It is at this moment as late and as early as the time can possibly be.”

  Cook shook his head. Puzzled, he asked, “What are we going to do at this hour?”

  The man stepped into his large canoe. He said, “Just come with me, Dick. I want to show you something that will help you out of this mess.” The two lighted in the boat and shoved off. There was one paddle. Cook sat in the bow, back to the water. The man propelled and steered the small vessel from the stern.

  Since the death of Kueka, things had gone from bad to worse for Dick. He was a prime suspect. Having been the last one to see him that fateful night, Black Jack had to give account of the evening simply to clear his own name. Of course, all the stories of the other sailors present that night concurred. Understandably, the authorities began to point fingers. In such a small and remote community, the heat quickly piled onto Cook. His unsavory character worsened under the pressure. His was a fitting response in the eyes of the villagers, they concluded, for a man who comported himself in such an irresponsible and slovenly manner. His drinking increased tenfold. His fitness for work was not even worthy of consideration. His presence was tolerated only in the least desirable places in the pa. He had become a pariah, stranded in a limbo between precluded guilt and his skillful self-destruction.

  Cook said, “I’m not helping here much, Black Jack. I wish that I had a paddle.” The cool night air blew softly off of the smooth sea and refreshed him.

  Black Jack said, “You are all right. Just relax and enjoy the journey. I will see that we get there. I know it’s been hard for you lately. I thought that we could just get away for a little while and talk about it.”

  Cook said, “A talk with the Tonguer! Now there’s a fitting therapy.”

  “You know, your getting off free from your trial has made it hard for all of us, especially after that last fella got convicted at trial up the coast.”

  “I know! Everyone thinks I’m guilty, Black Jack. It’s driving me crazy. They got that Maori fellow, though, didn’t they!”

  “Yes, they did. It’s a shame they haven’t found who killed Kueka. It didn’t help none that you called her Squeaker during the trial. No respect for no one, Dick, not even the dead. That’s just like you.”

  Cook said, “Yes, it is. The trial was hell, but they couldn’t prove a thing! Yes, they got the wrong man. I hope they find that son-of-a-bitch!” A silence fell between them in the darkness. Black Jack continued to row slowly and rhythmically. Cook asked, “Where are we going? And why are you dressed like that?”

  Black Jack replied, “I know some people who can help ease your pain. They are some Maori friends of mine. It will make it easier if I appear like this.”

  “Maori friends? Why do we need to see them? What makes you think that they can do anything for me? You’re not taking me to see that Robulla fellow are you? I don’t want to get eaten!”

  “Believe it or not, I used to live as a Maori, right down the coast here in Te Pukatea. I know that getting away from the white man for awhile can simplify your life. Maybe it will clear your head up a little. I’m gonna take you to the tribe I lived with and they will take care of you. You’ll get better, you’ll see. Hell, you can’t work none anyway, right?”

  “Get better? Black Jack, what are you talking about? I don’t need to get better. I just need to make some money and get out of this place.” He looked around and padded his pockets. He said, “Ah, damn. I left my tobacco back on the beach. You didn’t bring any, did you?”

  “I don’t smoke.”

  “Damn, then I reckon you didn’t bring anything to drink then, either?”

  “No.”

  “I knew you wasn’t good for nothin’, man!”

  Another minute of silence passed between them. Black Jack said, “They will feed you well. You won’t have to work, so you can catch up on your rest. There may be smoke, but probably no drink. You will quickly find that you do not need it. You’ll soon find yourself feeling happier, I promise.”

  “Geez, Black Jack, you’ve got this all planned out. I wish you had told me. I don’t know about living with the Maori. It may have been all right for a fella like you, but I’m white! How do you think they’re gonna take to me?”

  “How they would take to anyone, I suppose. Why should you be any different?”

  “Well, I don’t know. You know how I am with people, right?”

  “Well, yes, sort of. What do you think your problem is, Dick?”

  Cook perked up, delighted at the prospect of discussing his problems. The cool air, the isolation, and the sole company had suddenly become good things to him. Almost as good as a drink and a smoke, he thought. He started, “I don’t know. Well, look at me: I don’t have a woman for starters. Everyone else does, but I don’t.”

  Black Jack interrupted, “We’ve talked about this. I told you that everyone at the station has a fair shot at a wife.”

  Cook said, “Yes, but that’s a Maori wife. You know how I feel about that.”

  Black Jack said, “No, I did not. How do you feel? Do you have something against the Maori?”

  “Hell, Black Jack, I’ve got something against everyone!”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I hate people.”

  “You what?”

  “I hate people, every goddamn one of them. I mean, everyone acts like a goddamn saint. But they’re not. Everyone’s got the same problems as me, but they all act so holier than thou. Everyone’s always saying, ‘We’re just trying to help you’, but no one gives a damn about me. I’m all alone in this world. And with women: Hell, try to find a woman who’s a soul mate, Jack. I never have! They’re all so demanding. I don’t trust them as far as I can throw them, either!”

  “So you don’t form bonds with people, is that what you are saying?”

  “Hell, I don’t know. I guess so. Yeah, that’s part of it. I try to be friends with everyone, but they all shit on me. I never try to take advantage of anyone, but look at them have a go at me! It’s not fair. Everyone has always treated me like a child. I have never been respected by anyone. No one has ever told me that they liked me. You know that, Black Jack?”

  Black Jack choked. “I guess so.”

  “What’s wrong? Do I talk too much?” He looked around anxiously and rubbed his arms and said, “Brrr. It’s getting chilly. Are we there yet?”

  Black Jack said,
“Mmmhmm.”

  “Well, I don’t expect a fellow like you to understand. I know you’ve had a easy life and all. You haven’t done half the things I’ve done. But I appreciate you trying to listen to me anyway.” Babbled Cook.

  The remainder of the trip was spent in complete silence, save for the methodical strokes of Black Jack’s paddle.

  II

  Under the full moon the two in the canoe pulled into Te Pukatea around two.

  “Wake up, Dick.”

  “Where are we? What time is it?”

  “We are home. Here is where you’ll stay for the next little while.”

  “But no one will be up. What are we going to do?”

  “No, no. Don’t worry. We are going to do something first, before everyone gets up. I want to show you something.”

  “I don’t know, Black Jack. I’m so tired.”

  “That is exactly why I am going to show you this. It will revitalize you.”

  Black Jack paddled over to the southern corner of the bay. It was the rock corner with the cave arch that looked out over the sea that he had seen so many times before. Beside the arch was a large, flat, rock terrace that jutted into the sea, forming a flat table just beneath the tide. At the far side of the terrace was the rim of a deep tidal pool. It was oval, wide, and very deep. Small channels on its side allowed ocean water to rush in and out with the waves. At high tide, the water would surge just over the rim, rushing into the pool violently. The waves would break again at the back of the pool and wash up onto the rock terrace. The deep walls of the tidal pool were covered with large mussels, clinging tightly from top to bottom.

  Black Jack told Cook, “I want you to get in and pull some mussels for us. Because it is high tide, you need to be in the water. That way you can pull the mussels when the waves go out.”

  Cook watched the waves churn into and out of the pool, forming a swirling froth. He said, “But Black Jack, those waves are only a few seconds apart. I don’t know if I can do anything in that time. Besides, it’s cold! What do we need the mussels for, anyway?”

  Black Jack said, “The mussels are very good, and they’re good for you. They are very filling, with healing properties as well. They will help you to give up your vices. Also, they were my first meal here. They hold a very special meaning for me. Get in.” Cook hesitated, and then stepped out of the canoe, and onto the rock rim. Black Jack got out of the canoe and dragged it up onto dry rock. He turned to look at Cook. Black Jack said again, “Get in, Dick.”

  Cook stuck one foot into the water. He slowly lowered himself down to sit on the ledge. He said, “I’m gonna have to leave my clothes on, else I’ll be cut to shreds!”

  “You’ll be fine. Now get us some of those mussels. I’m hungry.”

  Cook gently slid into the water, carefully avoiding the edges. He tread water in the center of the tidal pool, coming to terms with the surging waves. “Good God, man, this is work just staying off the rocks. I don’t know about picking any mussels.”

  “Try.”

  Cook struggled to swim closer to the ledge where Black Jack stood. He waited and watched the clumsy waves slosh up and down the wall over a depth of several feet. He saw the mussels become exposed briefly, before being swallowed up again by the surging sea. Finally, he made a desperate attempt to get close to the wall. He allowed himself to drift, timing his descent with the water. He bobbed down and grabbed at shells. The water surrounded and submerged him. He popped up to the ledge, waving sliced and bloody hands. He sputtered, “I don’t know, Black Jack. This doesn’t seem like the right way to do this.”

  “What’s wrong, Dick?”

  Cook pushed back from the rocks, trying to stay afloat. He stammered, “Black Jack, this doesn’t feel right. I’m getting tired really fast. Look at my hands!”

  “What about them?” He slowly drew his mere from his belt. Its green stone shimmered menacingly in the moonlight.

  Cook looked up at him and said, “Well hell, if you’re gonna use that, I might as well get out. I’m bleeding like a madman here!” Cook paddled over to the ledge and placed his hands near Black Jack’s feet. He prepared to climb out with the help of the next surge. Black Jack squatted and slapped the broad side of the pounamu down on Cook’s hands. Cook yelled, “Ouch, damn!” He released the ledge and floated back to the center of the pool. He shouted, “What’d you do that for? The mussels are down there!” He pointed a bloody finger below Black Jack.

  Black Jack said, “I’m sorry, did that hurt, Dick?”

  Cook replied, “Well, yes! This is getting a little scary. I’m getting out.” He lunged once again for the ledge.

  Black Jack met his fingers again with a slap of the mere. He asked, “Do you think Kueka felt anything before she died, Dick? Or do you think she was too scared to feel? Which do you think would be worse, Dick?”

  Cook flailed his arms in the water. He screamed, “Hell, I don’t know. What are you askin’ me for? You’re scaring the Devil out of me. I thought you were my friend!”

  Black Jack said, “I am, my friend, I am.”

  Cook suddenly bolted for the ledge again, seeing that the wall was exposed by a lull. As he reached out for the ledge, however, he mistakenly placed his hands onto a ridge of mussels just below the lip of the rim. These mussels had been sitting only partially submerged by the high tide. Therefore, they were wide open. There they sat, like hard-shelled Venus flytraps, awaiting some non-existent prey. As Cook reached, his fingers slipped into the open mollusks, their shells snapping shut like so many small steel jaws. He tried in vain to rip his hands free before the onslaught of the next wave, but his attempts were futile. The swell came over him and he disappeared from view for several seconds. When the water receded, his limp body waved loosely behind his outstretched arms, the look of anguish frozen on his lifeless face.

  Black Jack poked his dead body with his mere. Satisfied, he said, “Rest, my friend, rest.”

  III

  Rowing back to Kakapo, Black Jack thought about his actions. He had not intended to pass judgment on his peer. He had truly wanted to help the troubled man in the best way possible. The healing time he had planned for Cook at Te Pukatea was real enough in his mind, he recalled; but as he drew nearer to the place, and closer to what he believed to be the truth, he had felt compelled by some outside force to follow a different plan.

  Black Jack’s mother always said, “Judge not lest ye be judged”, and “Thou shalt not kill”; and he had always tried his best to adhere to those guidelines. In this case, however, Black Jack had agonized over the murder of Kueka and his responsibility to it. Who was he to judge what killing was, he wondered, with his history? With time and thought, though, a difference had been discerned in his mind between the mutual slaughter of people in armed battle, and the mindless murder of a defenseless woman and her children. The entire affair had dredged up the painful memories of Kumari, along with the ordeal of his early days with Robulla. In the end, Black Jack had been faced with the same difficult decision: To choose between revenge and justice. Black Jack’s final resolution came about when he realized while rowing up the coast that both involved a certain amount of the sin of judgment. The difference between justice and revenge, he thought lay in the addition of an emotion called anger.

  As he rowed steadily over the still waters toward the whaling station, Black Jack was alone with the troubling reality that his act of justice had not been accomplished without a certain amount of that poisonous emotion. It was the same feeling when he had finally found Kumari. It had flared up inside him again while standing at Kueka’s funeral:

  “Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord," had said the Pastor, there amidst the amber waves of tall, windswept grass atop the lonely hill overlooking the bay. “Do not seek ye then to take an eye for an eye, nor a tooth for a tooth." Black Jack had only listened with one ear to the eulogy as tears of rage welled in his eyes and imagined scenes of the crime raced through his mind. Partially blinded, muted, and deafened by e
motion, he could not foresee the ramifications of the murder of this beautiful, young, princess niece of Robulla. Neither was he prepared for the odd response of the good Reverend when he had humbly requested to receive a copy of the Bible. The Preacher seemed bothered. He told Black Jack, “My son, it will do you no good if you cannot read what is inside it.”

  I sure can read you like a book, Preacher. Sure as I can read that Dick Cook like one. Maybe you’s both taken from the same page. I don’t need no fancy words to know what’s in a man’s soul. Black Jack had thought slyly as he ambled down the hill with a plan.

  Chapter 22

  January, 1843. Cloudy Bay region, northwest corner of the South Island:

  News of Kueka's murder did not fall well upon the ears of Robulla at Kapiti. In good faith and out of respect for Black Jack's wishes, he awaited the outcome of the white trial in town. He was naturally outraged at the acquittal of Dick Cook, a white man, on lack of evidence. This came shortly after a Maori man was hung for the murder of a white woman nearby. Immediately, there was talk among the Maori of utu, or vengeance, for Kueka.

  April 1843:

  Robulla stepped out of his canoe at Te Pukatea following rumors that the white man had been extremely active in the area. Pakeha ships had been pulling into a port at the top of the South Island, and white men were seen carrying on strange activities all down through the Waitohi valley to Tua Marina, just inland of Te Pukatea.

  The Chief was met by Reverend Ironside, a missionary to the area Maori since the signing of the Treaty of Waitangi. He learned the native tongue well, and he was a deft interpreter between the Pakeha and Maori. He told the Chief, "Do not be alarmed, but there are two gentlemen here under contract from the Crown to survey and name all desirable tracts of land."

  Robulla replied, "But they already have names. Does that not matter to them?"