Rich Man's Coffin

by K Martin Gardner

  Or harpy, he thought smugly as she latched.

  III

  Tooth marks spun in all directions, each bite overlapping the next in a cascading circle of rough swirls. Furry splinters leaned in odd patterns like tiny trees blown over by some forgotten frozen breeze. Black Jack stared up at the roughly cut ceiling timbers of his recent addition, and inhaled the sharp, sweet, scent of sawdust. The new room was a gift from the Major. Now the cabin had two halves, and it seemed like a proper house to Black Jack.

  Lying down upon his big, billowy bed, his gaze came to rest upon the coffin nestled among the new beams. He had built it last year and hid it out back. She happened to notice it during one of her visits.

  "Arpur, what is that?" She asked, looking up.

  "It's my canoe." He said in a fatherly tone.

  "It looks like a... well, you know, a coffin."

  "Same thing."

  "What do you mean? Are you going somewhere? Are you dying?"

  "No. I'm not dying. Yet."

  "Well, what are you thinking about coffins for, then?”

  "I’ve been thinking about a lot of things lately."

  "Like what? Death?"

  "Not just that. Listen, I just built the thing because I realized that maybe I won't be able to soon. I just want a proper burial, that's all. Besides, Death is a glorious thing to some people, not something to be scared of."

  "Oh. Well, don't be thinking of dying anytime soon." She kissed him on the cheek as she rolled beneath the linen covers. The potbelly stove crackled in the corner.

  "A glorious death may be all I get at the end of this life. I haven’t got much else."

  "How can you say that? You’ve got me! What more could you want?"

  "Well, look at your father."

  "What about him?"

  "He's half my age. He hasn't done nearly half the things I've done in my life. Look at all he's got!"

  "Well, what do you want all that stuff for, Arpur?"

  "I just feel that I deserve it. You know, after all I have accomplished."

  "But he's a white gentleman, Arpur. You're a black farmhand. What do you expect?"

  "Well, for starters, it would be nice to own some land. Maybe I'd like to build a big house and have a large family. Maybe even run for office."

  "Oh, Arpur, you're so cute!"

  "I'm being serious. Why shouldn't I have what every other man has, as hard as I have worked to achieve it?"

  "Oh, Arpur, now you are just being negative. Look how far you've come! You said yourself that you started life as a slave. Isn't it enough that you have your freedom now? You've had a full life. Now you've got a roof over your head, plenty to eat, and friends. I don't understand why you've got to be so hard on yourself.” She looked at him for a moment. “I guess it's a man thing."

  "You know, you've got an amazing talent for stating the obvious." He went silent, staring up at the coffin in the overhead beams while she stroked his chest hair.

  Looking up now, lying in the same spot without her, he longed for her presence. She would be along soon, he thought. He could suffer the agony of her misunderstanding his plight, he reckoned, if it meant having her undying affection. It was a fair, yet frustrating, trade for him. No worse than the condition of my life in general, he thought. At least she understands me more in some ways than most people do, maybe even more than Lalani or Kumari.

  She offered empathy and sympathy: The latter he could do without; but he realized that she was the only one who had ever offered both. So he took the poisoned pair with a grain of salt. Aside from their intimacy, however, he found himself alone to grapple with his own personal struggle. The paradox compounded his pain. If she could only truly understand me, he thought. Ah, the shortcomings of love: So close and yet so far. With all of her modern schooling and self-realized social awareness, she still could not see the forest for the trees. It actually made him feel better to pity her than to crave her.

  Wondering if it were possible to know someone right down to the very core of their soul, he lay there as long, thick bands of winter clouds swept by on the darkening horizon. She is late, he thought. He got up and looked at the watch: Six p.m. He worried. She had never been late. He pensively flipped the watch in his fingers, reading the inscription on the back: “J.O. Western.” Quite an expensive timepiece, he thought. The initials were not hers. Surely its owner must be missing it.

  A knock came suddenly at the door. Opening it, Black Jack was met by a sweaty, breathless man. "It's Miss Baillie!" He huffed. "There's been an accident."

  Black Jack's heart sank. "What is it?"

  "I'm not sure. They say she's resting up at the Big House. The doctor's been summoned from Picton."

  "Yes. And what am I supposed to do about it?"

  "She's delirious. She's asking for you! The Major wants you up there straightaway."

  "Tell them I will arrive shortly." Said Black Jack, shutting the door. He put his head down, hand still on the knob, and gathered his scattered thoughts. How much had she uttered? He wondered. What will the family think? Is she all right? He pulled himself together, and headed for the lights on the hill.

  IV

  She seemed all right. He looked through her doorway as the maid removed the washcloth from her forehead. He went to her.

  "Oh, Arpur. I'm so glad you could make it. Thank you." She looked around him to the maid at the door. "That will be all, Dora. Thank you." The maid genuflected and closed the door on her way out. "Oh, Arpur, it was horrible!"

  "What happened?"

  "Coming back from the market at Tua Marina, I decided to take a shortcut through a neighbor's field. Everything was fine, but I guess the farmer thought I was a stranger or something. I don't know, but the next thing, his dogs were chasing my horse and we went galloping for the fence. I was so scared, Arpur. We were flying! I tried screaming at the dogs, but they wouldn't mind me. They just kept barking and gnashing their teeth alongside, nipping at my horse's heels. It was terrible! We were going at full flank when we reached the fence. I was thrown so hard, Arpur. I thought I would break into a thousand pieces of glass." She laughed softly, then coughed and grabbed her side as tears flowed down her pale cheeks. "I'm so sorry, Arpur. I'm such a fool."

  He daubed her pale eyes with the cloth as he brushed her hair aside. "No, no. You're not a fool. Everything will be fine. It's not your fault. I'm here now." He kissed her hand with a faint smile.

  She said, "No, you don't understand. I'm really sorry... about the baby. The doctor says that I lost the baby!"

  Splinters jabbed and burned in many points throughout his body, and his temples throbbed. He held back tears of rage as he choked on his words and forced a smile. "Everything’s gonna be just fine. You rest now, love. Just rest." He waited for her to close her eyes. He watched as her exhaustion finally arrived and unpacked its bags, evicting her anguish. She slept.

  In his shock, Arthur was whisked back in time. The dogs tracked him. He was reluctant to leave in January. He heard that the ships depart in winter from New England to reach the South Seas in time for the whaling season. It would be the beginning of winter again by the time he reached his final destination, so he would sail full circle in seasons. Jeff had told him all about it, in an odd way. Now, as Arthur trotted across frozen fields of fallow Mississippi mud, the thought of going from winter to winter in less than a calendar year unnerved him.

  He felt no closer to the mythical mountain trail, after running all day. He had never ventured so far. By this time, the endless fields and hills before him blended into a mesmerizing scene that carried him in only one direction with two names. Nearly breathless, he kept repeating the words to himself, Forward, North, as he melted deeper into the magical, mystical painting he was plodding through.

  Follow the hills, Jeff had told him as they carried their wood in for the evening. “Keep the hills in front and the morning sun to your right. If the sun gets too hot overhead, find a creek with some trees and rest up. When the sun co
ols over your left shoulder, start after them hills again. Find another creek at night and stay there. That way, if you’re sniffed out, you always got the water to cover your tracks. If’n you find a creek flowin’ down out of the hills back at you, follow it up. The trail’s a few days out, depending on how fast you run. When you start seein’ big rocks stickin’ out of the sides of the steep hills, you’s real close. Find a field with some black folk workin’, and blend in long enough to find out ‘xactly where the trail starts. Then you be goin’ into the mountains of Gawgia.”

  Very good Jeff, he thought. If I could just shake these damn bloodhounds. He had sipped no stream water, nor nibbled at the salt bread his mama had made. Who had told? He wondered. From the sound of it, the plantation hounds and the hunting party must have started out after him straight away. He had planned it all well enough. Get into the fields at daybreak with all the other shivering fools. Work a full morning until the midday head count, and have one last good meal before heading out. Work toward the back of the field and slip over the stream while the foreman is busy counting the morning bales.

  The scheme should have provided him an hour at least, maybe two, before they knew he was gone. Now, he realized that someone must have talked. He had explained it to everyone he trusted; although, his missus did have that look in her eye. He had wondered about her. She really wouldn’t know any better if she had truly wanted him to stay. She was young. She had not witnessed a black man being strung up and tortured to stop more escapes. She might have told, she was that innocent. But how many times did I tell Lalani? He badgered himself.

  “Sugar, I’m comin’ back real soon for you and the youngin’, I promise. I’m comin back rich, and we’s gonna live free like decent folks, you’ll see.” He saw himself pleading with her. But she only pretended to understand the details. If he had not been blinded by his ambition, he would have seen her eyes telling another story, betraying her dumb, pregnant silence.

  His mind grappled with harder lines now than holding court for a suspected snitch. His lungs stung from icy air as he cantered constantly, counting endless fields as he crossed them. He remained vigilant connecting only the plots that lay dormant and empty of farmers and crops. The cold became a blessing. It limited the number of footprints, increasing the amount of fallow fields for the time of year. As the rhythm of his run came over him, he praised the cold where others would have cursed it. With only the late cotton left to harvest, slaves had turned to chopping wood and tending livestock. Winter life was more interesting for his people, but less enjoyable, as most were not fond of the cold weather. Frosty breath brought out the sporting spirit of the plantation owner’s boys, and Arthur had given them a chance to hone their hunting.

  The dogs were roughly a mile behind him, gauging from the echo of their barks. Their wailing came in waves, fading in and out. Continuing on a direct forward course would only bring them close to his flank by sunset. He had to lose the dogs somehow, without losing time.

  Pull a switchback, he thought as he ran. His jogging helped to form a clear plan in his mind. Along with the hard bread, his mother had given him a glass flask of medicine, as she called it: A pint of hard whiskey to help him along the way.

  “Now don’t drink this all at once, Arthur!” She warned. “Just a sip at night to keep you warm. And for God’s sake, if you get hurt, be sure to wash your wounds with it!”

  Arthur pulled the bottle from his breast pocket and watched as his steps jostled the liquid amber contents. He looked ahead and saw one of the many streams that cut across the fields of the low, flat farm. As he approached the chilly water, a scheme developed in his mind, and he quickly acted upon it.

  Without stopping, he stooped over to scoop up a small stone from the furrowed field. As he looked from the vessel of spirits in one hand to the rock in the other, he brought the two together smartly at the lip of the bottle. Just as he hoped, a small triangular sliver broke free from the top of the flask, leaving a jagged notch from its smooth round mouth slightly down the neck. Most of the smelly contents remained inside, with the cork clinging to the rest of the rim.

  Arthur dropped the rock, ripped out the cork, and swiped the jagged edge across his hand. He made a deep gash in the meat of his palm, and he briefly felt the sting of the spirits spilling in. He shook his injured hand and corked the flask, shoving it back into his coat with the clean hand. He let his bleeding hand trail to his side, dripping steadily. Roughly a hundred yards from the creek, he retrieved his handkerchief with his good hand. At fifty yards, he brought the bottle out, grasping it tightly. He looked like a magician ready to perform a trick. With his bloody thumb, he flicked the cork free and splashed the white cloth. Reaching the stony edge of the water, he squatted and poured the shaken bourbon straight into his wound. He allowed the liquor and the blood to mix, stirring with the rushing water as he cleansed the cut. Freed of blood, he wrapped his gash with the spirited rag and tied the knot, pulling it tight with his teeth. Standing, he swigged the remaining sour mash and smashed the glass into shards on the wet rocks. Satisfied with his handiwork, he wolfed down a slab of bread and slurped a palm full of water. He turned upstream and continued to run, skirting the creek along the edge of its sandy bed.

  He would run until sunset, he thought, and cross the stream in the morning near its head. He was sure that his quick trick had hampered the hounds and their heckling handlers. Someday they will pay for the blood I shed on those rocks, he promised himself.

  Suddenly, he was met with a grisly sight that stopped him in his tracks. Up on the ledge of the bank was a tall tree, and tied to it were the mangled remains of a man staring down onto the rocky riverbed. Arthur crept over and grabbed hold of an exposed root, pulling himself close to the sun-dried bones. From way back, something fought his fear to fetch a distant memory and drop it at his feet. He recognized a missing tooth where his father used to pack the snuff before he sang behind the old-timers shed. And there was the lion tattoo from his father’s African tribe, marking him as a king in making, stained all the way to the skull. Arthur recoiled in panic, running without paying proper respects to his past.

  “Free men don’t get hunted with dogs!” Arthur shouted out loud. The sound of his voice faded into the vast expanse of empty fields, easing his shock and pain as it fled. Downstream, his yell fell to a whisper as it blended with water babbling past confounded hounds sniffing and baying sadly at the bridgeless brook.

  Now, as the tears streamed down his face by Miss Baillie’s bedside, he calmly formed his cold, callous resolve. No best friend of man can resist a tasty treat, he thought. My recipe, though, is going to be the final solution to the problem of the damn dogs.

  V

  Over the next few months, many canines were found scattered throughout the valley, lying peacefully with no visible signs to explain their mysterious deaths. It was as though they had just lain down and died. Some dogs had become slower over a span of days. Nothing they ate or drank indicated anything unusual that might bring about their demise. Even the Major's dogs had not been spared, a fact that dismayed him enough to bring it up in conversation one day.

  "Black Jack, what do you make of all these dogs up an dying all of a sudden? Worms, you reckon?"

  "I don't know, Sir. You’ve got me on this one. I love these dogs." Said Black Jack, petting the puppy that the Captain had just picked out of a new litter. "Could be anything, I reckon."

  "Well, I don't know about anything, either. I just thought maybe you had run across something like this before."

  "Naw, Sir. I ain't never seen nothin' like it before. But I got something that might help."

  "Well, let's have at it, then." The Major said.

  "All right, Sir, hold on." Said Black Jack. He went into his cabin and returned with a large, green flour tin. He opened it to reveal an aromatic pile of fresh-baked biscuits. He grabbed one and fed it to the small, eager dog.

  "Mercy, he's really wolfing that down. What's in those, Black Jack? The little
fellow is literally polishing that thing off!" Said the Captain.

  "Yes, Sir, he is." Said Black Jack. His wry smile held back laughter as he happily recalled measuring out his private stash of government flour in preparation for cooking. His secret recipe called for it to be finely sifted and laced with glass grounds from the old chief's sacred greenstone.

  VI

  "You’ve changed all the dates around." Remarked the Judge. “I know, because I remember when you beat up the Reverend. I was the Judge in that case, remember?”

  "Beg your pardon?" said Arpur.

  "The dates... the events... the places... you lied in my courtroom. Why?"

  "I didn't lie... I just withheld a little of the truth."

  "No, wait. You didn't want anyone to know. You were scared! Why?"

  "Well, wouldn't you be? I mean, think about it: Would you admit that you took part in some of the bloodiest massacres in history? Would you admit that you were a murderer, a spy, a traitor, and a blasphemer? Thank God, my wisdom outruns my vanity now."

  "Perhaps. I don't appreciate your mockery of my court, though. But I can certainly see your point, given the scope of your situation. I will be understanding this time and say that your story grants you a certain license with the truth, in light of how others might unjustly perceive you."

  "Thank you, your Honor. I appreciate your patience and interest in listening to the full story. I believe that you are the only one to have heard the entire account."

  "It was well worth it, my friend. I do not believe that many people will ever hear such a story as great as The Legend of Black Jack White. Before I retire for the evening and let you get back to the Major’s house, I want to thank you for living such an inspiring life."