"You handsome devil." Said Black Jack as he reeled back to the present and took a final look into the shiny spoon. He looked forward to the Reverend’s arrival. Having to work on Sundays, he was unable to attend the valley's newly constructed church. He had many unanswered questions about his spirituality that he hoped the good Reverend could help him with. Black Jack went and changed out of his butler attire and into his field clothes, and he waited for the man of the cloth. Black Jack was not serving the evening’s meal, so he would wait for the Reverend outside.
Riding upon a donkey, the Reverend arrived at roughly three ticks of the clock past half-past three; just in time for hors d'ouevres. He was heralded by a bell tied behind the animal's ear. Lone, low muggy clouds clung to the threatening sky. Black Jack greeted the Pastor with a blanket and promptly ushered the covered burro to a stable stall. Returning to the house, he saw the Minister speaking with the Major, a glass of champagne in one hand and a deviled egg in the other.
Black Jack went to his shack to retrieve his Bible. There were so many things that he didn't understand. He wanted to ask the Preacher. His reading lessons with Baillie's daughter had uncovered so much within the scriptures, and yet the truth confused him. He took up the Good Book and went to the yard, waiting patiently near the porch. He paced as he practiced his questions in his mind. He could barely hear what the Major and the clergyman were conversing on.
"What in the world is he doing? I’ve never seen him act up like this." Said the Major in a hushed tone, looking sideways toward Black Jack.
The Reverend followed suit. "Good Lord, is that the Bible that I gave to him all those years ago at Squeaker’s burial? Has he even learned to read yet?"
The Major replied, "Well, my daughter has been teaching him a few things. I don't know, he may have mastered the language by now." He paused as the two held their pose of simulated conversation on the porch, ever watchful of the black man striding back and forth on the lawn. The Major called out to Black Jack, "I do say, is everything all right, man?"
Black Jack stopped and turned. "Yes, Sir. I just need to speak with the Reverend about some things."
The two men on the porch exchanged puzzled looks. "What sort of things, Black Jack? The Reverend and I are rather busy."
"Just some things, Sir. Important things."
The two on the verandah froze in their self-important poses for a moment. Then the Reverend said, "I'll be with you in a moment, Black Jack."
The Major said, "I'm so sorry, Reverend, I don't know what this is all about."
The Reverend smiled and raised his hand. "It's quite all right. I'll take care of it. Just don't sit down to dinner without me." With that, he walked down into the yard. He said, "What is it, my son?"
"I don't know. Lately I’ve been having trouble with my faith, Father."
"Your Bible contains all the answers that you will ever need, my son."
"But I can't read all that well, Father."
"Then you should come to church, my son. All will be revealed in readings and sermons there."
"But I can't make it to church, Father. My work don't allow it."
"Then you can always pray, my son. The Lord will answer your prayers."
"Well, that is just it, Father. Lately, I don't feel that he has."
"How do you mean, my son?"
"Well, take my life for example. I just don't feel as though I’ve been rewarded with the things I deserve."
"How do you mean?"
"Well, look at me. I’ve worked hard all my life. I’ve been in this land since before most white people ever heard of it. The handful of white folk who were here are all dead now. And I'm not even considered to be a citizen, or allowed to own land. I wanted to be someone too. I ran away from slavery in my country, and now all I am is someone's house servant."
"Well, that is something, isn't it? If you are comparing yourself to Major Baillie and the way in which he has been blessed, then you are comparing apples with oranges."
"What do you mean?"
"Well, the Major is a righteous man. He gives a proper tithe to the Church, the one that he donated land, wood, and money to in order for it to be built. He's a pillar of the community and the salt of the Earth. That's why he's living large and reaping what he has sown in his mansion on the hill there. It’s all a reflection of what God thinks of him." The Reverend beamed as he looked dotingly up the hill at the Big House.
"Living large? So you're telling me that I'm living in a tiny shack with hardly no money because God hasn't smiled on me?"
The Reverend’s look suddenly soured. "No, no. That's not what I meant. I'm saying that perhaps it is a spiritual problem on your part. Maybe there is some sin that you are still guilty of that you haven’t confessed to God. Perhaps you don't pray enough. You’ve really got to get off somewhere all by yourself, away from all these people, and really spend some time and effort at it. Have you ever tried that? Maybe that is something you can work on in your spare time. Perhaps you are working too much. That can be a sin as well. I don't know what's going on with you and this young lady, but I know it's improper for a man and a woman to spend time alone together where people can talk about it and bear false witness. And lastly, it may just be yourself, Black Jack."
"What do you mean by that?"
"Well, Black Jack, the Captain is quite a refined gentleman of good breeding and manners. He's a real people person with a great personality. God likes that."
"So, without a personality, my spirituality is going to suffer, you say?"
"Well, aside from salvation, the Lord gives us Liberty. After that he gives us talents. For some it’s music, for others it's writing, and perhaps for a few it is the arts. However, for a select group, the talent may be the ability to win friends and influence people. God rewards those people; perhaps a bit more than ordinary folks."
"So, after all this time as a good person, I may still never be fulfilled spiritually because I don't have a dynamic personality?"
"That may be part of it. I really don't have all the answers, Black Jack. It is between you and the Lord. If he has seen fit to make the Major your master, then it is up to you to be obedient. The Bible says that. Besides, the Major, despite his wealth and prosperity, is just as accountable to the Lord as you and I are. Your riches lie in Heaven."
"That is all well and fine, but what if I don't go to Heaven?"
The Reverend sighed. "That is between you and the Lord's grace, Black Jack. It all goes back to what I was saying about sin. Only you know what is in your heart. I’ve heard some things about you, Black Jack. I'll be honest; the Maori have spoken of things, which if true, would cast serious doubt on your chances, at least in my mind. And then there's the Major's daughter. I don't know what's going on there. I know that if a man lies in sin with a woman that he may never wed her. I might just count my blessings, if I were you, and be grateful for what little you do have. You see, Black Jack, I think that I know your true personality; and now you may be getting just what..."
Black Jack could take no more. They were standing by the corner of the house. He grabbed the Reverend by the collar and jerked him around the side of the building. With a highly raised hand, he brought the heavy Bible swiftly and squarely down onto the preacher's nose, smashing it and causing it to bleed profusely. Dropping the book, he clasped both hands firmly around the Reverend’s neck and began to shake him violently. The clergyman turned purple. Black Jack yelled, "You have absolutely no idea what the hell you are talking about! Do you hear me? You're not a man of God! You're a farce! Do you have any idea who I am and what I’ve done in my lifetime?" The scuffle went on for several seconds.
Suddenly, the Major and some of his workers appeared. They struggled to pull Black Jack off of the minister. The police were summoned. The Reverend pressed charges. Black Jack was arrested for assault and Major Baillie subsequently posted bond. Upon hearing the testimony of each man, the Judge bound both parties over the sum of twenty-five pounds to keep the peace
for six months.
Chapter 26
She always dressed formally when she came to call. According to the custom of the day, that included a full blouse with bodice and hoop skirt, black, laced leather boots, and a bonnet with its assortment of fastening pins. Being one of Major Baillie’s daughters, nothing less would be expected owing to her position in life and her status in the community, even if she were just tutoring cottagers on her rounds most Sundays.
Lessons always came after church. Depending on how many people had signed on for the day, they could last from mid-morning to late afternoon, with the compulsory break for lunch. The Major’s daughter would start at the Big House with a round of chitchat and the obligatory ‘catching-up’ with her mother, father, and siblings; and they would discuss her travels and doings over the previous week. Conversation would invariably turn to the arrangement of cottages scattered down the hill and throughout the valley, with mention of each occupant’s progress in the arts of reading and writing. Everyone received the highest praise from their gracious tutor’s tongue, although she never admitted that certain persons’ attitudes and aptitudes rose above the others; or that certain students shone in her eyes brighter than others.
She was fair and impartial to the last, and no one was the wiser as to how well the others were doing, or how poorly as the case might have been; and she managed to instill a sense of confidence and accomplishment in all of her pupils as a result of her cheerful and generous nature, aside from her personal feelings.
In the course of conversation, however, it was understood that special mention be made of a certain favorite topic, that being one ‘Black Jack’ whose progress in the disciplines piqued a greater curiosity due to his unique character and personal standing with the family. Black Jack had never learned to read and write, in all of his sixty-two years; even though his service in the local regiment as a mail carrier had required that he at least be able to scrawl his name. But he had always wanted to read and write, he told her. Since his escape so many years before, he had yearned to keep a journal of all the incredible things that he had become privy to as a free man; and with freedom should come education he had always thought.
And so, in his later years when he had “done most of his living”, he welcomed the opportunity to receive the personal attention of the good Major’s daughter on his days of rest. Sunday afternoons off were a luxury bestowed upon him by the family only lately, in return for the many years of fine service that he had provided them. Now that he was in the golden years of his life, he thought, he wanted to take the time to reflect on the magnificent occurrences within his life. Possibly, I’ll write them down, he thought. Maybe now’s the time to finally write a letter back home.
Separation and time had long since quelled the fear that his former captain or some such authority might someday return and enslave him once again. He knew now that his old captain must be retired, if not dead. His fear had given way to a mellowed bitterness in which he wondered about his former life and the possibility of a returning to his homeland.
But Black Jack was happy now, he realized. He did not let remorse into any of his reminiscing. He had lived a full and exciting life. He felt at home now. Unless something drastic occurred to change his life, he thought, Kennington would be where he was laid to rest. It was more a contented realization for him than a committed resignation to the twilight years of his life. He began to savor every moment there in the hot, sunny valley that had become his sanctuary.
She knocked softly, with her usual rehearsed hesitancy, and waited in premeditated nervousness just outside the open doorway. She tugged down the hem of her wool vest, and tipped her hat as she assured herself that the pins were not showing through her tightly bound hair buns. With a final ruffle of her hoops and petticoat, she put her arms to her side, clutching her attaché stuffed with lessons, and waited for him, eyes straight ahead. She really didn’t know the source of her girlish anticipation; she had just always liked Black Jack. Perhaps it was the way that everyone always talked about him, or the fact that he was such a unique fellow with such a decorated past; or perhaps it was just the opportunity to help such a nice old man to learn an important skill he had never possessed despite all of his accomplishments. Yes that was it, she convinced herself: The chance to teach something so important to the man whom she had grown up around, who was nearly three times her age, and who still stood so high in the community. It, he rather, made her feel important. Perhaps that was the reason she always visited Black Jack last, in the late afternoon, and stayed with him the longest.
The hot sun sprayed down upon her. Her eyes strained in the dark doorway. Seeing only grayish-blue mist, she knew it must be cooler inside the workingman’s hut than it was standing in the full rays of the three o’clock sun. Slowly, a dark form within the interior became framed by the dim portal. It moved toward her, filling in the blue with black until suddenly there he was: Six-feet-four of imposing lean stature.
“G’day Miss Baillie, how ya goin’?” He grinned. “Would you like to come in?”
Her formal posture broke and she pushed past him with the good-natured impatience of a long-time mate. “Would I ever, Black Jack! You know better than to keep a lady waiting. And in this heat!” She huffed half-jokingly as she turned to cast her eyes upon him, as if castigating the family dog.
“Sorry, Miss Baillie, I was busy out back and didn’t hear you knocking.”
“Having a bit of a lie-down, were you? And you know when I call, don’t you!”
“No, ma'am, always working. You know me.”
“Well, alright then. Won’t you offer me a seat?” They broke into random shuffling about the room, like a disjointed and careful dance in the search for their respective places.
“Here, Miss Baillie. Take this one.” He swiftly moved a chair into the middle of his one-room hut. “I’ll take this one.”
“Oh, Jack, when are you going to get a proper desk?”
“Now Miss Baillie, you know I can’t afford any desk. Besides, where would I put it?”
“There’s plenty of room. I will see what I can do about getting you a proper writing desk.” She ruffled her petticoat; settled her skirt; and placed the lessons upon the large lap created by her hoops. “Now let us begin.”
The lesson went well, as had always been the case. Black Jack showed what he had learned in his homework, while adding to his knowledge during the current lesson. Miss Baillie had ‘developed’ a method for teaching whereby, at least in Black Jack’s particular instance, she would have him recount episodes of his life, one or two per lesson, and write sentences which highlighted the topics of mutual interest. The technique worked quickly for Black Jack. Over a cup of tea, he would mention several subjects that thrilled Miss Baillie while she jotted down what she considered to be pertinent and useful words. These were the ‘big’ words, as Black Jack called them: The names of places, the action words from his adventures, and the various birds, fish, and other animals that he had come across in his travels.
Miss Baillie believed in her method, because although the words she chose were generally more complex and less obvious to acquire than the more common articles and pronouns of simple sentences, she thought that Black Jack’s emotional connection to these words and the imagery that they evoked would provide a greater motivation for him to learn. Besides, it seemed much more interesting, not to mention dignified, for a grown man than starting at the ‘beginning’ with the alphabet and trying to teach Black Jack the sounds of the letters; assembling the sounds into words, and then stringing the words into meaningless and childish sentences. She thought that might bore them both to tears; and Black Jack’s interest in spending time with her in lessons might quickly wane.
Her theory proved correct, as the two of them embarked into many hours of lively conversation; none of which seemed to either of them to be contrived or designed solely for the lessons at hand. She would wait for the end of a story, or perhaps for an appropriate interval when they mig
ht be laughing uproariously at one of Black Jack’s anecdotal hyperboles, or even staring intently into one another’s eyes as Black Jack sauntered deeper into one of his, “There I was, surrounded...” tales. At that point, she could toss out a couple of words at Black Jack; and sit back to relax and enjoy her tea while he struggled to piece together familiar letters and sounds to form the words.
“I wuz at wyroo.” He uttered, as he looked for approval.
“Good, Black Jack!” She said. “Now, let’s start with the easiest. How do you spell, ‘was’?”
He thought hard, knowing that he could have spelled it correctly the first time; but he always opted for the phonetic spelling to impress her with his speed at writing complete sentences. “W-A-S.” he said. A lot of spelling made absolutely no sense to him; and he let her know quite often.
“Good. Now let’s start getting these right the first time, all right Black Jack? This is very important.” She said firmly. She also placed a hand on Black Jack’s writing hand as she leaned forward in her chair. He knew that she meant nothing by it. His respect for her was immense. They had formed a professional bond in their serious endeavors together. Each of them sensed the other’s admiration.
After Black Jack finished a full page of sentences, complete with corrections, Miss Baillie graded his paper with her usual ‘excellent’ and relaxed into a less formal mood. “Ah, Black Jack,” she said, “You really are progressing quite well. I’m proud of you.”
He hid his embarrassment. “No worries, Miss Baillie. You are certainly the best teacher that I have ever had.” They both laughed.
“Ah me, Black Jack, you are a true card. Who says you can’t teach an old dog new tricks?”
“Watch who you’re calling ‘old’, Miss Baillie, or I’ll go up there and tell your father about your lack of respect for your elders!”
“As if he’d listen to anything you have to say about his honorable daughter, you old goat!”
Rich Man's Coffin Page 26