"The pleasure was all mine." Said Black Jack.
Chapter 27
Brilliant burnt umber and sublime avocado green chased dusty olives licked by hues of orange, on a palate of saffron and chili reds. The Major's wife had a masterful yet sensitive stroke in her art.
"Stick the fork in it!" commanded the Major through the dark. Arpur fumbled with the utensil, sliding the tines into the narrow mouth of the hot funnel. Carefully nudging the tin cone into place, he brought the painting into focus. The light streamed from the lamp in the box, through the lens, and projected the picture onto the stark, plaster wall. "Perfect!" barked the Major. The big house loomed and blazed in vibrant glory, and then vanished with a flash, leaving only a white void on the wall waiting for the next slide.
"Now this one might require a bit of explaining." Said the older woman. Arpur fed the transparency of her artwork into the frame. The searing beam pushed its image across the room, creating an apparition of absence. A hot, still, silence hung in the air, mingling with the dust dancing sadly in the ray of light pressing the shadows of heads flatly within the family portrait. "I painted this one at Christmas when everything had settled down and no one was bothering me anymore. Can you see who that is, Black Jack?" Asked the Major's wife, pointing to the picture of her daughter, son-in-law, and granddaughter.
"Yes, Mrs. Baillie. I can see them just fine. Now just 'cuz you can't see me in the dark so well, doesn't mean I can't see you." Said Arpur. The Major and his wife laughed. "I mean, I am only eighty-one years old." Sitting there with the elderly couple, he felt more like a caretaker for the fellow aging, rather than a staff member who was hanging on due to the kindness of his employers. The mutual bond that the three had formed over the years helped to soften the blow struck by seeing the familiar figures upon the wall. He gazed at their faces as he remembered the people and events of the past twenty years: The young girl, the woman, and that man who had come for his watch that day.
Flashing back to September of 1875, he remembered the winter chill had not yet yielded to Spring. They lay cuddling beneath flax and wool near a crackling potbelly stove. They talked about their lost child and the way things might have been.
"You know that I love you, Arpur."
"I'm not so sure."
"How can you say that?"
"Why won't you marry me?"
"Oh, Arpur, it's so complicated."
"No, it's very simple. You say you love me. I love you. What is stopping us? Surely it isn't..."
"No, no. It's nothing like that. I just want to be happy right now here with you. Can we not be so serious?"
He was about to drop the sensitive subject, but she left in a hurry. Later, the man came on horseback, knocking upon Arpur's cabin door.
"Where is she?" A young man dressed in fine clothes demanded.
"Where is who?"
"You know who I am talking about." He snarled and pushed his way into the shack. "Don't make it worse than it already is."
"Sir, I... "
"And what is this, then?" The man demanded, spying the desk. "How did this get here?"
"I don't know." Arpur stammered.
"I see. Perhaps a fairy carried it here. And in the drawer, what have we here? J - O- Western. Do you know who that is, boy? John Octavius - that’s me! This is my watch. What are you doing with it?"
"I don't know."
"Right! It's her, isn't it! You listen here. I don't know what's going on between you two, but there is no way that my sweet Gillian is going to waste anymore time teaching a goddamn nigger to read! You hear me?”
"Loud and clear, Octavius."
"Don't mock me, boy. I’ve got a right mind to have you arrested for theft. In fact... right!" He stormed out with his final words.
Arpur was arrested shortly thereafter, Mr. Western having wanted to preserve the honor and untarnished name of his fiancée, the daughter of the good Major Baillie. Arpur never saw Miss Baillie privately again. Sightings of her around the Big House became rare. She only visited once or twice a year on holidays. She became Mrs. J.O. Western at the arrangement of her loving parents, had a daughter, and got on with the business of being a proper gentleman's wife. Arpur toiled poignantly for years, tending to his garden and his heart which over the years had so many times been bent but never broken. As he mended the fences around Kennington, he often distracted himself with pleasant thoughts of her while he chewed on nails and pounded the posts.
"They're coming with the honorariums for Bastille Day next week. We’ve got so much to do William. Are we ready, do you think, Black Jack?" The Captain's wife spoke aimlessly to everyone in the room and no one at all when she asked him a question.
"Yes ma'am, we'll be ready." Said Arpur, after a pause.
"You understand then why we couldn't do much for your eighty-second birthday, then?"
"Yes ma'am." He said through the darkness, still staring at the portrait on the wall.
"And you’ve eaten all your cake over there, then?" She asked.
"Yes, ma'am. I'm eating the last piece right now." He said sheepishly.
"You know the little one there in the picture was so funny about it."
"How's that ma'am?" Asked Arpur, mouth full of cake.
"Well, it was her first try at baking; so I couldn't let her waste my good flour. You were out and about somewhere or I would have asked first; but I sent her down there to get some of that old Government Issue stuff from your place. I figured it wouldn't matter much once it was cooked up properly." She began to smile.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Well Gillian was here, and we girls were all in the kitchen doing other things while we tried to make time for your cake and..."
"Miss Baillie - I mean Mrs. Western - was here today?"
"Yes, Black Jack. She stopped by to help with your cake. She wanted to make biscuits, but I didn't think that was appropriate. Now don't interrupt me.”
"Yes, ma'am. Sorry ma'am."
"So things got very hectic and we kept misplacing various items while we were running here and there; and it didn't look as though we were going to get around to finishing your gateau. No sooner had we put it in the oven though, than the little one holds up the can to her mother and asks if you are Polish!"
"Come again, ma'am?"
"That's what I said. Gillian picked up the can, and she seemed puzzled. She said that in all her long talks with you about your adventures that you had never mentioned one time about being in Poland. We figured it must be one of your jokes, eh Black Jack?" There was a pause. "Black Jack?" No answer. There was a flutter of commotion in the dark as the elderly pair scrambled from the couch and hurriedly lit all the lamps in the room.
Sitting there in the middle of the room, beside the desk upon which sat his crudely crafted machine, was Arpur, head to one side and hands clutching at his gut. On the desk beside the apparatus were a saucer and a fork that held the last bite of chocolate cake. The projector worked through a lens from a watch that had been purchased at the expense of six pounds, three shillings, six pence, a day in court, and Black Jack’s remaining pride. It sat atop the desk that had been thrown in with the bargain and brought back to Kennington as a show of no hard feelings and much persuasion by Miss Baillie upon her hot-tempered fiancé.
IV
Awaking in the hospital, Arpur looked out over the cold, gray plains being pelted with winter rain. The day seemed as night; and even the nurses' cheery smiles could not lift his spirits as he lay upon the white sheets stamped in red letters: 'Picton Infirmary'. He listened intently from his bed as the doctor in the hallway told the Major and his wife that all that could be done was to “make him comfortable.” They came and stood by his side, expressing their sympathy and apologies for what had happened. They iterated their wish that they could do something for him. They left with best regards and gratitude for his long service to the family.
Shortly thereafter, she came. The daughter he rarely saw stood with her, the mother's hands upon her sh
oulders. They gazed forlornly at him.
"I'm sorry, Mister Arpur. I didn't mean to make you sick." The little girl said, her brown eyes twinkling and her broad nose twitching.
"Shhh." Her mother shook her shoulders gently. "I'm sorry. I should have known you never sailed to Poland." Said Mrs. Western.
A laugh made it halfway out of him before he grimaced. "I guess this is one way to cleanse the soul." He said, grabbing his side. “Thank you for coming." He said, grasping her hand.
She sobbed and laughed simultaneously. "It is my pleasure, you old fool." She said. They exchanged a pained glance for a moment. “We have to go now.” As they were leaving, the little girl broke from the door and ran back to Arpur's bed.
"Mama says she still loves you sometimes, Papa." She ran back to her mother who shot an embarrassed look at Arpur. She grabbed the little girl's hand and they disappeared from the doorway.
Arpur thought he slept for a time. He awoke to find Reverend Ironside standing beside his bed.
"How are you, you old dog?" Asked the Reverend. "I’ve been sent in to give your last blessings."
Arpur watched as the man whom he thought had died years ago began to make the gestures of the Cross and to chant in Latin. Arpur turned and looked out the window. It was still raining hard as the sky grew dark under a hidden sunset. The priest finished his ceremony.
"They say there's a flood coming, Black Jack. What do you make of that?" Asked the clergyman.
"I'm not ready for this." Arpur said suddenly. He bolted upright in his bed. "I’ve got things to do." He sprang from his hospital bed in his gown and bare feet, and he headed for the door. As he left the room, he glimpsed a parrot landing on the preacher's shoulder.
"No, Dick, no!" squawked the bird.
Arpur ran down the long, dark hallway toward the main doors of the infirmary. Over his shoulder, he heard a large door open. Many big dogs began to howl frantically, their claws tapping on the tiles as they got closer behind him. Bursting through the doors, he ran out into the rain and headed for Para in the remaining daylight. The dogs pursued him as the water began to rise around him.
Splashing through deep puddles, he raced for home along the muddy road to Kennington. He wanted to reach his cabin and retrieve his coffin before it was too late. He wanted a proper burial like his old nemesis. He wanted to be buried in the casket he had made.
Reaching his shack, Arpur stood knee-deep in the rising water. The dogs had abandoned their pursuit. He brought his burial box down from the ceiling beams and climbed in, leaving the lid behind. Coffin or canoe, the point was moot now as he floated calmly on the mounting waters. They will find me, he thought, when the flood is gone. They can bury me on the spot they find me on, for all I care. At least I’ll be remembered. But I’d rather live to tell everyone back home.
The coffin drifted around the valley basin as the roof to his hut disappeared under water. The flood was worse than he had expected. Suddenly, the rain stopped. The clouds parted. The sun shined focused rays down around him. The water became as smooth as glass. He sat and looked around the beautiful still silence. Then he noticed that a strange unknown force seemed to be pushing his vessel gently toward the west. He was surprised by a splash. A small black boy popped his head out of the water a few feet from the coffin.
"Daddy, Daddy. Look! Grandmamma taught me how to swim. I can swim forever now." The boy said. He swam on ahead of the casket and disappeared.
Where the boy had first appeared, Arpur's mother sprang from the surface. Treading water, she said, "Oh, Arthur. He was such a joy to all of us. You would have been so proud, son! Don't worry, though. I took good care of him. His mama took ill in the head after he was born, though. The Master had to put her down. We gonna all be together now. You'll see. C'mon, it's just up ahead." The black woman swam away, disappearing into the glare of the sun-stained waters.
Arpur lay back, a sense of peace coming over him, as various other figures from his past swam by. The box floated into the wavering streams of glimmering light, toward the blazing ball in the sky. A rainbow appeared in the distance. As he approached the setting sun, the bright yellow shine blinded him, causing him to see green. His canoe fused with the luminescent, emerald crystal in the sky as it sintered and solidified. Turning from a fiery orb to a ring of greenstone, the jade pendant gave up its ethereal light and faded into the dark flesh of his black chest where he lay on the white covers of the hospital bed.
The nurses gathered around, and with a “1-2-3,” and a “heave-ho,” they lifted him free from his bed and shrouded him with the sheets.
Epilogue
Arthur Harper Alesworth died on July third, 1894, just two days before his eighty-second birthday. His funeral was well attended. His obituary in the local paper said that he was a trustworthy old man; and although he made no show of religion, dearly loved his Bible. The paper went on to say that those in the valley who knew him well had nothing but kind words for him and said that he would be missed there.
Black Jack White was buried at Picton cemetery in the dead of winter. He lies peacefully in a grave that remains unmarked.
Rich Man's Coffin Page 29