Dashing in the distance, to and fro, through the valley over tracts of land still undeveloped, the couple rode red-breasted on horseback. With hunting caps on, horns blowing, and hounds in tow, they cantered regally, relentlessly pursuing their elusive quarry and maintaining a purposeful appearance. Obviously lost, but till refusing to show any sign of doubt or deterrence, they strode confidently up to Black Jack's shack. He was home in the cool and shade, counting his tins of flour that he kept to mark his months in service. The man and wife, remaining mounted as they jockeyed upon their unsteady steeds, called out from the yard. Black Jack, happy to offer his help to the hapless horsemen, humbly stepped outside.
"Yes?" Said Black Jack, standing in the late afternoon sun.
"Good fellow, have you happened to see any hares?" Asked the gentleman hunter.
"No." He had never seen one. That fact was in keeping with his knowledge of the entire missing menagerie whose list he had amassed in his head. "I’ve never seen anything worth huntin' 'round here except pigs." He added, looking down and around contemptuously at the panting dogs in his yard.
"Well, I say, that is odd. Something should surely be done about such a sorry state of sport." Said the gentleman, exchanging glances with his wife.
"I do say, Charles, it sounds like a good opportunity to demonstrate your expertise in stocking. " She said with an insidious grin. The two looked at one another for some time. Black Jack became annoyed with their secretive smiles.
"Righto, we're off then." Said the man finally. The pair bolted as their dogs leapt to attention and followed. Black Jack thought them completely rude, and he went back to watching his eighty-one containers of now wormy wheat powder that he had continued to receive for each month of service.
Days later, the couple returned. Carrying covered cages, they carefully dismounted and looked around. The dogs had been left behind. The two were smiling arrogantly again as they surveyed their surroundings. They gave Black Jack the creeps, in their pretentious hunting jackets and riding pants.
"Sir, we bring good tidings from Picton." Said the gentleman.
"Picton, where is that?" Asked Black Jack.
"Why, haven’t you heard, good man? They changed the name just over a fortnight ago." Said the gentleman.
"No, I hadn't heard that. I don't get much news out here." Said Black Jack.
"Well here, take a look at this." The gentleman handed Black Jack an official piece of paper.
"Sir, I cannot read. I'm sorry." Said Black Jack.
With a look of skepticism, the gentleman retracted the sheet and said, "Very well, I will read it aloud to you then: 'The Governor doth hereby, in further pursuance of his plans, constitute the town of Picton, heretofore called Waitohi, to be capital of the said province of Marlborough, designated to be the upper region of the South Island of New Zealand east of the mountains to the sea, this first day of November, eighteen-hundred and fifty-nine.' Now, how does that sound?"
Black Jack said, "That's the ugliest name I’ve ever heard. I remember getting ‘picked on’ by the guys on the ship. Is that English? What was wrong with Waitohi?"
The gentleman eyed Black Jack suspiciously and said, "Yes, it's English. The other name was Maori, as I'm sure you know. Besides, good man, how did you file for your property without knowing how to read or write? Did you employ a solicitor?"
"A what who? File, sir? However do you mean?" asked Black Jack.
"For this tract of land which you occupy: Surely you have the paperwork to prove ownership." Said the gentleman.
Black Jack said, "Sir, I have filed no such paperwork, nor is any in my possession."
"Well how is it that you claim rights to this land? I notice that your accent is not British. I was under the distinct impression that this land had been purchased and cordoned off for subjects of the Crown."
"Sir, I have more rights to claim this land than you will ever know. I have been here for many years on this same spot. If this land is not mine by squatters' rights alone, then I don't know why not."
The gentleman gained a gleam in his eye. "Well, it is not a matter for me to debate. I was simply curious. My wife and I had seen this big empty tract for some time, and thought what lovely hunting grounds it would make. Didn't we, Pooch?"
"Quite right, Hunter." Said the woman.
"Right. Now, we have some business to attend to. We were hoping that it would be all right if we started a little project out here in the middle of the valley, my good man." The gentleman uncovered the cages, revealing their contents. “These are four of the finest Dutch rabbits known to man. We brought two males and two females. Would it be all right if we released these on your land for the purpose of stocking the Wairau area? It will be a momentous occasion, and a monumental achievement if successful."
Black Jack was amused. “Well, I don't know. I don't see why not. I'd be curious to see if we can't get something else to eat around here besides birds, fish, and hogs. I'll be surprised, though, if they stick around these parts."
The gentleman, anxious to do his deed, ignored Black Jack's last comment. He was already opening the cages. He shooed the rabbits, and they all hopped a few yards in different directions. Suddenly, all four stopped and sniffed the air. Noses wriggling and eyes wide and glistening, they slowly began to converge on one spot. Once together, they suddenly ran off into the low bush following one cardinal direction. They all stood and watched the rabbits dissolve into obscurity across the scruffy plain. For a time, Black Jack could make out their tails when they stopped to rest. They reminded him of picking cotton.
Finally the man said, "Right. Well perhaps we will see them again some day. For now, it’s farewell to you good man. Thank you for all your help."
"No worries." Said Black Jack.
III
A month later, more people came. Dressed in their Sunday best, they arrived in a caravan of uncovered carts. A gentleman dismounted and stepped to the door of the shack. He stroked his muttonchops beard, fiddled with his military sword, and smiled back at a finely-dressed woman holding the reigns from the driving bench. Finding no one about, he rejoined his family troop and sat purveying the vast plot before them. “According to the deed, it runs from the Tua Marina stream up there at the eastern boundary, for five hundred yards to the base of the foothills on the western end for the same width. It’s surely nicer than that swamp the Governor gave me up near Nelson, wouldn’t you say?”
The lady looked around. “It’s certainly drier. We had a good go at Erina. She just wasn’t the kindest piece of earth for farming. Who knew that this beautiful tract was sitting here unclaimed the entire time, Major.”
“Please darling, call me Winston. After thirty years in the military, I am well retired, my love. But you are right, signing for these five thousand acres looks like a good decision. The magistrate’s lips were completely sealed about the history of the area. He said a good hunting friend of his had told him about it just recently. What shall we call it?”
“It’s a bit early. I am thinking of naming it in honor of my father’s estate back home.”
“Very nice. Very fitting for such a fine wife, Mrs. Baillie. First, though, let’s find out about this American Negro fellow that the drunk old Maori guide in town told me so much about. Says he was a warrior whaler or some such nonsense.”
“He doesn’t seem to be around. I don’t want to wait for some black Yank to give us permission to start our new life, Winston. Let the boys start unpacking, all right?”
“Yes, dear.”
Arriving on the scene near sunset, Black Jack did his best to hide his exhaustion and put on his friendliest face. "Stopping to rest for the night? How far down the valley ya goin'?" He scanned his mental map for the scarce areas that remained unclaimed.
The man said, "Ah, you must be the famous Black Jack White. I have heard so much about you. I'm Major Baillie, and this is my family and our servants."
The word 'servants' pierced Black Jack's side like a cold blade.
"Likewise, Mr. Baillie. Yes, Sir, I’ve been here for years and years. I used to be a whaler. Now I deliver the mail and supplies occasionally. Plus I help people settle in here around the valley. I could help you all, if you like."
The Major said, "No, no. You take your time. We’ve got plenty of help of our own. You just let me know if we can be of any help to you."
"Help me? How do you mean, Sir?"
The Major smiled smugly. "Well, you know, when the army has found you new quarters to relocate to. Let us know how we can make your move all the less difficult."
Black Jack’s hair bristled and his scalp crawled with cold sweat. "Relocate? Sir, I'm not going anywhere. Now, you can stay here for the night, but I think it'll be best for everyone if you be off in the morning."
"Perhaps I haven’t made myself clear. My apologies if I have angered you. This is our home now. We were awarded all of this land, and we will be here making improvements from this time forth."
Black Jack felt ill. "Awarded this land? I didn't know about any contest going on. As far as I know, this land belongs to me."
The Major, turning away from the curious eyes and craning neck of his young wife, spoke lowly to Black Jack. "Now sir, I can understand your displeasure. I know that it is an unfortunate event that you are not a subject of the Crown. Believe me, I am prepared to make things comfortable for a fellow serviceman. That is, if you would be willing to stay and work for us."
Tears of anger and disgust welled in Black Jack’s eyes. "Goddamn, ain't there nothin' in this world that the white man won't take? Hell, I was here before you was born! Don't that count for anything? I got to think about this one. I'll be back." He stormed off into his dim hut, leaving the Major holding his hat and looking at the ground sheepishly. As he stood there in the purple dusk, tins of flour suddenly began to land around him. They discharged clouds of white dust as the pressure from the impact forced their round lids to pop off loudly from the square olive-colored cubes. The sounds of impact and release of pressure reminded the Major of falling canister bombs on the battlefield.
IV
Baillie and his team had brought their experience at clearing difficult land from Erina to Para. His workmen soon converted it to arable soil, with the trees being sold to the sawmiller. With money rolling in and little work to do, the Major's interests turned toward local politics. Despite his earlier failures, he was courted and recruited on the grounds of his exceptional land management skills. He won convincingly the seat of Superintendent of Picton in 1861. Baillie was a scrupulous and generous leader. He poured funds into public works and local projects, mainly roads and bridges. The area from Picton to Tua Marina benefited greatly from his managerial foresight, becoming a shining example of British ingenuity and engineering in New Zealand. Baillie could not foresee one thing, however, despite his overwhelming popularity; and that was the great flood of 1862. By great, it can be said that water overran or washed away every newly-built road and bridge, covering the land and the first story of every building from White’s Bay down to the river at Beaver Town; essentially, the entire northeast corner of the South Island of New Zealand was under water. It was as if the entire valley was merely a vestigial inland inlet for the ocean to reclaim as it saw fit. It also claimed the political career of Major Baillie. How he could come to be blamed for an act of God is enlightening testament to the nature of the early colonial political climate.
Sparks of another kind flew in the valley, however, when the first telegraph lines were installed in 1863. It effectively put a welcome end to Black Jack’s mail-carrying days; and ironically, was the same year as the Emancipation Proclamation in the United States of America. That fact would not be discovered by Black Jack, however, until he heard it from some American gold miners the following year.
Disheartened by the loss of his 'sovereignty' over Para, and now fully retired from his former service, Black Jack was willing fodder for the fire that swept the area in 1864: Gold Fever. Having already become seasoned veterans, the '49ers from America led the way in making and working claims for the new gold in New Zealand. Miners came from all over the world, determined not to miss out on the next big rush, as many of them had done in the States.
The strikes in New Zealand were rich. Men could become wealthy in a matter of months even from small claims; or they could, as in most cases, lose everything that they had left behind to unsuccessfully chase the elusive nugget. Men frequently fought and died in drunken brawls in conditions very similar to the old whaling stations. Once the abundant alluvial gold -- the loose stuff lying in the river that was the most visible and romanticized -- was depleted, then the glamorous job of gold prospecting became a treacherous and dreary daily routine of drudgery and dredging. Men stood in cold, muddy water waist-deep shoveling gravel and dirt into sluices which washed the rocks and precipitated the gold dust, yielding only a few dollars a day. People could make more money in wages while shoveling manure back home; and yet the allure and the mystique of the metal invariably dragged out the insufferable idiot and perpetual loser from the best of men. Within weeks, Black Jack had been wise enough to wistfully watch his worthless pan being whisked by whitewater downstream as he waded away toward home. Returning to Para, now overgrown with workers' cottages all around his old shack, he humbly begged the Major for his old job and the hut.
Around the same time, a plague of sorts ended the gold rush in wool. The dreaded 'scab' disease virtually eliminated sheep from New Zealand in 1865, the same year that the thirteenth amendment was ratified in the U.S.A. From that point on, it was illegal to own human beings in his home country. Black Jack never got the news.
In 1867, the felling of the trees sold from around the Baillie estate began. They went quickly. Nearly 300,000 acres of wood disappeared. What had once been dense forest and scrub brush was now smooth and barren, save for the patches of grass the white man converted to planting fields. Houses were the most popular crop. Major Baillie kept up with the times. He had a fourteen-room house built, eight of which were bedrooms. Constructed from wood cut and milled right on the grounds, it affectionately became known as the 'Big House.’ Mrs. Baillie had it and the surrounding land officially christened ‘Kennington’ in keeping with her wish to honor her father back home. It was the New Zealand equivalent of an English squire's mansion.
Major Baillie’s foresight paid off in 1868. He had placed the porch of his palace above the previous flood plain. Another great flood came that year, and a shimmering lake spread out before the manor house. It served as a hospitable ark for the cottagers whose shacks now showed only shingles. One rare guest, the hare, was readily added to the list of refugees. Unbeknownst to anyone until that point, the four rabbits had reproduced rampantly in recent years. They overran the ramparts by the thousands when the river rose. Black Jack thought that perhaps the sly red fox could provide the remedy for the silver bunnies, once the water receded. Had he thought to return to the United States that year, he would have been granted citizenship in his mother country, regardless of his color.
Flaxmilling began on a large scale in 1869, with several plants springing into operation throughout the valley. Black Jack leant his expertise to all of them, being intimate with the wild filamentous fiber that thrived in the local bogs. The Industrial Revolution had brought machines and automation to the mills, and with them came the monotony of the humdrum factory job. Black Jack still preferred to work alone, but his time spent spinning flax in the mills was not without interesting incident. As it happened, one of the most popular products of the mills was rope.
One day, Black Jack overheard many men talking while on their morning meal break. He heard things such as “Not me, not for all the money in the world.” Then, “Well who are they gonna get to do it?” Lastly, “Why us? Just because we make the rope doesn't mean we tie the noose!” His supervisor approached Black Jack and told him that there was a pressing errand in Picton, and to please ride over there pronto.
Black Jack, upon arriving at the
center of town with the best rope available, was whisked behind a stage, given a hood and a pair of gardening gloves, and told what to do. Once on the platform with the bound and blindfolded murderer, he simply said, “Do not be afraid, my friend. You are going to a better place.” He tightened the knot and pulled the lever. Bloody Jack, you’ll never change, he thought. Unless you find yourself love and happiness again.
V
Greenstone ground to powder with an iron whetstone, placed into white flour and wet to a paste. It was Black Jack's secret silver polish. Ironically, he discovered it quite by accident when he tried to sharpen Robulla’s pounamu. The old mere went back on the shelf in his hut, but fine green glass flecks had gone everywhere and irritated his eyes and skin for days. Upon touching the aging flour tins with sparkling fingertips, he found that a gleam arose where once there was merely a dusting of rust and a thin, dull tarnish. He became obsessive about the shine of the metal, and he began to buff everything. He would stand and polish the entire set of the Major’s silver for hours on end some days, staring into the smooth, gleaming surfaces. Such was his fascination that he had started making suggestions. “Sir, you could make your silver into coins and start your own country.” Or, “Sir, you could make a kind of money for the Maori and Pakeha alike and unify the land.” The Major would listen and then laugh at him in a loud, fatherly tone that he seemed to reserve only for Black Jack and his comments.
Major Baillie would say things like, “Black Jack, where do you come up with some of your ideas?” The family would snigger and scoff in the next room.
Rich Man's Coffin Page 25