Rich Man's Coffin by K Martin Gardner Read Free Book Online Page B

large, cast-iron cookers were arranged in groups of three, strapped together tightly in a triangle.   He soon learned by listening to the more experienced workers that the process involved with the pots was also itself called trying , which referred to the boiling and breaking down of the large chunks of blubber into useable oil. So it made sense to him when one of the workers called it a try-pot .   He watched as long strips of blubber, two-feet wide and about twenty-feet long, were carried over from the flensing station where they were being peeled off of the side of the leviathan with large, hooked blades strapped to the end of long poles.   These were the flenses, similar to medieval implements of battle.   He witnessed the cutting of the strips into one-foot by two-foot blocks, which were laid out ready to be cast into the cauldrons.   Smaller loose chunks and remnants were thrown under the pots into a makeshift furnace, the whale supplying the bulk of its own fuel for burning.   The smell of incinerated whale fat did not wholly sicken Arthur, as he had felt before. He remembered roasting wild game back on the plantation.
    His job seemed to be the simplest on the shore from what he could see; but Arthur hedged his enthusiasm and kept his head down, so as to hide any weakness and prevent any ribbing from his unfamiliar workmates.   Everything went well, and Arthur soon began to grab chunks and chuck them into the pots.   The other men on his team were either disinterested in Arthur, or they had become indifferent to everything in the face of long, hypnotic hours of monotonous labor.   Arthur had happily resigned himself to anonymity, when suddenly one of the men spoke up.
    “Where are you from, mate?”   he asked in a British accent.   The front of his grubby uniform was smudged with oil and dirt, but his spirits seemed bright.
    “America.”   Arthur said.
    “Ah, a Yank!” said the man.   “John, we got a Yank in our midst!”
    “I heard, I heard.” the other Brit said.
    “Go on, mate.   Which ship is that you came in on?” asked the first man, looking over his shoulder toward the bay.   “ That’s not American, is it?” he asked.
    “The sh...sh... Shibboleth.”   Arthur stammered.
    “The what?” asked the first Brit. “Oh!   The Elizabeth!   That’s right.   But what are you doing on an English ship, mate?” he asked.
    Arthur appreciated the man’s liberal use of the word mate . He replied, “Yeah, that’s it.   She was in Liberty Town, takin’ on supplies and men.   The First Mate said somethin’ about ‘no whales off Nantucket, goin’ to New Zealand.’   So’s I said take me !   Hell, I didn’t know it was this far.   Neither did they, if you ask me.”   Arthur finished with a grin.   Both men chuckled.
              The Brit said,   “Mate, you’re all right.   I don’t think I’ve seen any black men down here, except for the Maori.   In fact, last I heard, they don’t let your kind out of the country where you come from, right?”
    Arthur shrank from the question.   He said timidly, “No. They don’t.   I is one of the lucky ones.”
    “Well, mate, I think that’s just great!   The first Yank down here, and a black Yank at that!” the Brit exclaimed.   He asked,   “What’s your name, mate?”
    Arthur said, “Arthur, sir.”
    The first Brit said, “Sir?   What the hell you calling me sir for?   I work for a living, just like you. Never mind mate, it’s just as well.   We call everyone new around here ‘Jack.’   Isn’t that right, John?”
    His friend said his words through a loud, wet belch, “Yeah, sure, Jack.”
    The first Brit turned back to Arthur and said, “Don’t mind that shite head. Your name’s gonna be ‘Black Jack’.   What d'ya think about that, mate?”
    Arthur didn’t see any choice but to accept his new moniker cheerfully.   He replied, “Yeah, sure mate, that’s great.”   He asked,