"Yes?" He asked.
The same young officer as before, now looking seasoned from time in the field, held the scroll and read, "I, Governor of Nelson, do hereby command by proxy, that one Arthur Alesworth, commenced to fulfill his reserve duties; and to be sworn hereto, this ninth day of November, in the year of our Lord, eighteen-hundred and fifty-two. The duties shall be as follows: To serve as mail carrier for the postmaster at the new Wairau branch post office. The fulfillment of these duties will endure until such time as I see fit for the cause of the war. Failure to commit to this charge will result in arrest and imprisonment. That is all. Signed, Governor Eyre." The soldier dropped his town-crier tone, and said, "You need to sign here, sir."
"Goddamn, I am never volunteering myself for nothin', or signin' anything ever - EVER - again. I got a job! You know that? I've been running odds and ends down the stream for people goin' on two years now. How'm I 'sposed to do both now? What does this pay?"
"Sir, we'll bring you your tin of flour every month."
"Flour? Flour! I don't bake boy. What'm I gonna do, cook some biscuits? Did you bring me an apron as well? Hell, give me that pen. I'm sick and tired of this whole business." And with a stroke of the quill, Black Jack became the first postman for the Waitohi valley, including a small settlement downstream, which was becoming popularly known as 'The Beaver'. It was a place that was situated at opposite side of the top of the valley to the town of Waitohi; and it would soon become its rival. One prominent figure from Waitohi township wasted no time in setting the undeclared feud in motion when he sardonically remarked, “The beaver town is beautifully situated in a hollow, or swamp, nicely adapted as a natural basin to receive the overflow of the Wairau river as it frequently does.”
III
Upon reporting to this station, Black Jack was promptly informed that he would also report periodically to different regiments in full military capacity. That might include war hot spots on the North Island, with extended time away from home. Wonderful, he thought. What the Hell am I fighting for?
Taking his medicine like a man, Black Jack pulled up his bootstraps and got on with the daily routine of working the many jobs that had made their way into his busy schedule of semi-retirement. He adopted the demeanor of a truculent yet cynical middle-aged man who has too much to do and who would rather be gone fishing. Becoming a celebrity because of his visible position in the community, Black Jack smiled whiled hailing patrons and sighed wearily when he rode off into the dust between stops. He was always on the go, with no time to catch his breath until he went to bed at night; although he knew somehow that he was probably not working any harder than he ever had. It was the expectation of having wanted to slow down that added to his burden, he wisely presumed. He chastised himself for having to enjoy his work to make it easy, although he did not have an answer for his own immaturity. At least he still worked alone, he thought, without supervision. That had always been one of his strong points, he recalled: To get on top of a job from the start, so others would leave him the hell alone.
So out he rode, day after day, on a mule he called Independence. If he were going to be tasked with carrying the white man's written words, then he would do it with pride. Besides, folks in these parts actually seemed friendly and genuinely happy to make his acquaintance, he thought. It almost made him feel guilty for secretly hating their guts. As time went on, it seemed that Black Jack ended up doing just about everything but deliver the mail.
"You're that fellow that can grow almost anything under the sun around here, aren't you?" Asked one white gentleman at his gate. "Tell me now about the difference in this Maori potato and the Irish ones." Black Jack spent the better part of that afternoon with the man in his garden.
"You know how to cut and cure this confounded Totara wood, don't you fella!" Exclaimed another hardy settler, anxious to dry in his new house with a solid roofline. Black Jack spent half a morning there talking about native wood grain.
"Partner, I hear tell that you tamed this wild flax all the way into a pillow. Is that true?" Asked a curious older white woman one day. Black Jack patiently demonstrated his techniques with her and her husband. She wanted yarn. Her old man wanted rope. Black Jack knew it all.
He became the handyman and Jack-of-all-trades for the entire trotting area. His knowledge and expertise were in constant demand, and he was held in high esteem throughout the community, mostly owing to his humility and good sense of humor. He sardonically thought to himself that if not for the all-out thrill of it, he at least liked the reward that came with working. He enjoyed being appreciated, and not being taken for granted. A sense of importance began to take root in him; and as he lay in bed thinking one night, he realized that he was actually seducing himself into aiding the enemy. He needed to regain perspective, he thought. He needed to reach down inside himself, he realized, and bring out that ruthless edge that had emerged in his youth. He lay there scheming, wondering how to resist the slippery grip of collusion; when in a sudden flash of brilliance, the answer revealed itself to him: The mail!
Once again, he rejoiced, the white man had tossed the keys to the inmates. Black Jack could neither read nor write; and yet he realized that a large part of the solution to the Pakeha problem was carried under his nose every single day. He also knew the man who could best utilize all of that information which was flowing into the land in neat little packets by the boat full.
Tamihana, having been raised a Christian and taught the language of the Pakeha by missionaries, would be the perfect candidate for deciphering intercepted civilian and military mail. The only problem, thought Black Jack, would be converting him to the cause.
IV
To a Maori guide in the Spring of 1853: "Relay this message to Tamihana, son of Robulla, in Kaikoura. From Black Jack White, an ally of your late father. I realize that your Christian faith and gentleman ways have prevented you from taking up arms against the Pakeha in the land wars. However, I am sure that you would agree that these wars have nonetheless escalated in the North; and that they threaten peace for us all. Something must be done. I am therefore calling on you, in addition to preaching your message, to take action in a manner that I will impart to you. Can you please make arrangements to visit me, as I cannot leave my post? Thank you."
Of course Tamihana knew the entire story of Black Jack White, and he was more than happy and honored to row down the coast to White's Bay and inland to Para. There in Black Jack’s hut on a hot, sunny afternoon, the two chiefs had a meeting of the minds. Tamihana came with a reverent and open mind. The two exchanged pleasantries, laughing about good memories, and mourning the bad. Then Black Jack literally dropped his plan into Tamihana's lap. Dumping out the contents of his mailbag, Black Jack let fall a multitude of letters and packages as his companion watched them tumble into a pile on the floor.
"I know it's not the Christian thing to do, and I know it's an invasion of privacy; but I think it's the answer to stopping the war." Said Black Jack, standing with the empty, open bag in his hand.
Tamihana looked at him blankly for a moment, and then brushing letters aside as he stood, said, "No." He calmly made for the door.
Black Jack stepped in front of him. "Now wait a minute Chief. Let's think about this."
"No."
"How better to see into the mind of the white man. Think about what it will mean in the long run."
"No."
"To your children, to everyone’s children if you can honestly say that you helped to stop the bloodshed."
"No." Said Tamihana, more firmly, as he pushed through the door past Black Jack.
"Chief! What are words on paper in comparison to piles of bodies? Maori bodies!" Black Jack screamed at the departing man's back. Tamihana kept walking. Black Jack, in desperation, blurted, "No one likes you, you know! I hear them saying that you're too soft, that all your words about peace and love are for the birds; that they do nothing for the Maori."
Tamihana jerked to a halt. He lifted his head, tu
rned on his heels, and charged back toward the door. He grabbed Black Jack by the throat and pushed him back up against the wall of his hut. "You are an evil, evil man. Do not anger me with your mischief." The Chief's voice faded as he sized Black Jack up. He released him and dropped his own head. "Oh, you are right, I suppose. All the prayers and hallelujahs grow tiresome when only half the people are in church." He lifted his head and said, "And only half of them are listening." The two chuckled. Tamihana stepped back inside as Black Jack followed. "Tell me about your plan my friend."
V
"So then I said, ‘Oh yes sah, you'll find plenty of water down there on that piece of land. It sits right below the bend in the river. And I do mean, below." Said Black Jack.
Tamihana fell into his best impression of a naïve settler. "Well, thank you, kind fellow. I surely do appreciate your help."
"Well don't mention it, sah... to anyone!"
“Don’t mind if I dooooo!” Catching his breath, Tamihana wiped a tear. "All right, time to get serious. Now you say you'll be carrying some actual military orders on the North Island?"
"That's what they say. And you know what else?"
"What?"
"They actually think that I'm gonna go coast to coast, Wellington to Wanganui, inland by mule!"
"Not row along the coast by canoe?"
"No. And can you hear me now when they ask how the jungle was? 'Ah, you know, tough as nails, sah, but I managed sah.'; or when they ask about crossing the rivers: 'Oh, you know me, sah. I swam... and I helped the mule swim across too." The two slammed the table in unison as they laughed hard in each other's face.
The pair hammered out a simple plan. Tamihana would send some of his brighter young Christian Maori who were literate in English. They would live with the tribe at White's Bay, and coach others there in the finer points of the scheme. Whenever Black Jack received orders, he would recruit readers who were also adept at doctoring the mail so as to avoid detection; and then the mail would be distributed by canoe all the way up the coast of the North Island to its appointed post. By that time, most of the information would have been acted upon and countered, making its message meaningless and its mission moot. The best advantage of this system, of course, was to help avoid bloody conflict altogether. The best part of it for Black Jack, was that most times he didn't even have to go along. He stayed at White's Bay and made a working holiday of the entire operation, until word of its success returned to him and his swollen belly.
Occasionally, he made a cameo appearance, borrowing a mule on the other side of the strait and popping up at some checkpoint near Wellington. A few soldiers knew of him just through general appearance and mention of name; however, most of them would have been hard-pressed to formally report any specific times or places of his actual presence. An icon to the Maori, recognized instantly by strangers from description alone, he was a convenient nobody to the white man, remaining effectively anonymous to the majority of his superiors for the duration of his postal career: A true civil servant. Plus, he looked absolutely killing in a uniform. On more than one occasion, his sharp duds no doubt helped him to knock off the odd piece of lonely, homesick settler's wife whose husband was too busy mending fences or shifting livestock between paddocks. Amazingly, between the days of espionage and his long stops for morning and afternoon 'tea' with the ladies, Black Jack received a commendation from the Governor at Nelson for 'timely and efficient performance' of his duties.
VI
One day down by the river, Black Jack ran into one of his old whaling station mates. He was working on three small boats, all newly built. They were painted yellow, with red trim, and a red placard on the back with letters that Black Jack supposed were their names.
Recognizing Black Jack, the man called out, "G'day mate. Gosh it's been years. How ya goin'?"
Black Jack took a moment to place the face, and then recognizing the whaler, said, "Oh, fine. My legs could be better; but I'm gettin' along all right."
"All right? I hear you’ve been running the mail around here."
"Oh, well, I do what I can to get by. How 'bout yourself?"
"Me? Well, see for yourself. I’ve started a new business now that the whales are gone. Just built myself these three new beauties. I'm just about to christen them. Yes, sir, ferry transport: It's gonna be the next big boom 'round here. Join up with me now, Black Jack, and you can get in on the bottom rung. Whad'ya say?"
"I don't know."
"Bah! Sure you do. This is where it's at. Good pay. Plus commission, your own boat, and you get to spend some nights down in Beaver Town. I hear tell it’s a wild place. I'll even put you up at the hotel. C'mon."
"I don't know." Said Black Jack. The damn war is winding down, he thought. I haven’t heard of a battle for nearly a month.
"Bah! C'mon Black Jack, help me christen these babies. Then we'll have a beer and talk about old times. Like when you disappeared off the back of that whale!" Remembering such a strong event, Black Jack relented; and the two maneuvered onto the small pier with their bottles. The Captain cleared his throat and puffed out his chest. He said, "All right, ready? Nothin' fancy now. I, Captain Samuel Bowler, do hereby commission to service the following boats, this first day of January, eighteen-hundred and fifty-five: The Mary, the Gypsy, and the Necromancer." Sam gave a nod, and Black Jack smashed his beer bottle over the bow of the Gypsy, the bottle spewing the remainder of its contents onto the other boats.
Black Jack liked his new job. He liked the little boats, and the way that Sam had designed and tailored them for the swift, shallow, and narrow streams that interconnected the townships of the valley. They weren't like the clumsy and unruly boats of some who had hurriedly adapted their old whaling skiffs when they abandoned the stations. No, these digs were smooth, thought Black Jack, as he cruised in style on the calm, clear waterways lined with emerald grasses. So much better than fighting the riptide on coastal mail runs from Nelson, he thought.
He had gotten a good feel for the job, and had made a handful of local runs. Then came the day that Sam gave him his first big assignment. He was sent down the big river with a full load of bottled liquor. It was bound for one of the new hotels on the main street. Successful delivery, off-loading, and bill collection would come with a complimentary meal and a night's lodging, he was told.
Sam explained the mission in the same fashion as his whaling days. "Now this is one run I'd usually keep for myself, but I'm busy with some other things; and I can't take the whole day and night to go down to the Beaver. I want you to be real careful with this one. You're full to the gills with cases of gin, and I can't afford for these to get the slightest bit wet, let alone dumped in the drink. You should be fine, just take your time gettin' down there, this being your first time and all. It's real simple: The Beaver has grown a lot in the last couple of years, but she's quite easy to get around. The river comes around a bend right at the end of her main street. You'll see the three hotels there in a row, along with some other shops; and a garden park at the far end. That's all there is to it. Just dock the boat, and the boys will be there for you to help carry the load. Got it?"
Black Jack accepted his assignment with a modest level of excitement. "Yes, Captain."
"Good. Now I’ve loaded up the Necromancer. Make sure the guys are from the right hotel. They'll say they're from the 'Gin Palace' when asked. It’s not the name painted out front, but that's how you'll know. Good luck."
With that, Black Jack put his pole to the planked and pillared pier, shoving off for Beaver Town. “You are not quite as wordy as you used to be, Sam.”
“Don’t push your luck, mate.” Sam said, watching Black Jack’s back drift away. I would of never figured on that one still being alive, Sam thought.
The Necromancer, Black Jack repeated to himself as he disappeared from sight. He asked the Captain what the boat’s name meant, but Sam’s convoluted eloquence only confused him further. Something about a man who had power over death, he thought he heard.
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.
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