Rich Man's Coffin (47 page)

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 might 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!”

“Old goat!
 
Why lady, if I didn’t owe your father so much gratitude, I’d take you out and show you a thing or two on this farm.”

“Well, with that young man, I had better take my leave; as I believe a certain someone has learned all that they are capable of today.”
 

As she stood, the hem of her dress caught the leg of her chair, sending her and the seat rolling backward in a flail of arms and a flurry of white flaxen petticoat and gray wool.
 
Her hat flew into the corner; and there was a cacophony of pins scattering across the hard floor as her long hair came tumbling down and streamed past her shoulders.
 
She threw her arms back, landing on her palms and rump simultaneously with a thump and a whoosh of air blowing across the small room in all directions.
 
Black Jack reached out to catch her. Rising up from his chair, he only managed to flail along with her as he witnessed her descent in slow motion.
 
With a thud she stopped, head turning up immediately to look into his eyes staring down in the sudden awkward silence.
 
Tears began to form in her eyes.

“Oh, Black Jack, what am I going to do?”
 

He helped Miss Baillie to her feet. They surveyed the damage. She spun around and around; and he walked around her in the opposite direction.

         
When all had been seen, she cried, “Black Jack!
 
What am I going to do?
 
I can’t leave here in this condition.
 
What will they say?”
 
Her dress was covered in the floor dust that clung to the wool. Her bodice was turned so that part of her petticoat showed around the top and bottom. A portion of her corset was visible between her blouse and skirt.
 
Worst, all of the hoops had slipped their rigging and were turned outward pointing in all directions.

“Now, Miss Baillie, just calm down.
 
It doesn’t look like anything got torn.
 
We’ll have you fixed up in a flash.”
 
The last thing he needed was for her to bolt out of his hut in her present condition and run yelling up to the Big House, he thought.
 
She was twenty-three, and mature enough to handle herself in most situations since returning from the university; but still, he knew how women could fly off the handle.
 
“Besides, I’m an old whaler from way back, Miss Baillie.
 
These are whale bones, and you know I know my way ‘round
them
, right Miss Baillie?”
 
He said in a calm voice.

“Oh, Black Jack.”
 
She whined.

“Oh, nothin’, you ‘jes hold on, you.”
 
He placed a hand firmly between her shoulders and guided her to the back of his chair.
 
She relented in silence, yielding to his touch, and relaxing her tense stance.
 
Black Jack pushed her gently forward. She put her arms out straight and grasped the top of the chair back.
 
He began the task of briskly brushing the dust from her dress with one open palm, steadying himself as he leaned down with his other hand perched on her back.
 
He stood up, carefully slipped his fingertips under the waist of her skirt. With a swift tug, pulled it right again.

“Black Jack, I don’t know.”
 
She said softly.

“Shhh, Miss Baillie.
 
Jes' hold on.
 
Now this next part may be a little tricky; but you just trust your trusty Black Jack.” Although he knew a thing or two about whale bones, the little secret ins and outs of ladies’ clothing mystified him.
 
He proceeded with caution.