Authors: K Martin Gardner
“No, my friend, but this sounds serious.
What does this word you mention have to do with it?”
“All right.
Here it is:
All the captains of the ships are on this one ship, and they’ve got us all gathered around this barrel, pointing to this big piece of paper.
It's got all kinds of Pakeha writing on it. At the bottom, it’s got a little picture of some kind of flower and what looks like a chief’s headdress. The picture is all bumpy, with wax around it, like someone carved it into the paper.
Only, instead of feathers, the headdress has colored stones and shiny metal on it.
Does that sound familiar?”
“It sounds like they want you to sign some sort of contract.
Like the one that made me a slave to the ship.
What are they saying it means, again?”
“I’m telling you, they are talking about,
Sovereignty of the Crown
over Maori land.
I don’t know what they mean.”
“Well, if I remember correctly, it means the same as you sittin’ on a hill and overseeing your land.
Yes, that’s it:
Being master of all you survey, without no one tellin’ you what to do.
That’s what that means!”
Black Jack seemed impressed with himself.
“Or wait, maybe it means being master of your own destiny.
I can’t remember which.”
Robulla said, “Master of all I survey?
What, they want to take all the land, do they?”
“No, no.
I’m sure they wouldn’t be foolish enough to try that on you.
Remember what I said about the white man coming?
I told you there’s a whole heap of them.
They’re probably just makin’ sure that it’s all right that they start comin’ down here.
You know, so there’s no trouble with the Maori and all.”
“Well, there won’t be any trouble if they don’t try to take what isn’t theirs.
Besides, we don’t really own the land.
We
belong
to the land.
The white man doesn’t seem to understand that.
That’s why I’m so confused about them wanting to officially declare this
sovereignty
thing on paper.
How much land do they think they need?
They act as if they are going to fill every available inch!”
He laughed at his own words.
Black Jack said, “Yes, well, I know what you mean.
It is not enough for the white man, it seems, merely to use the land sparingly for what he needs.
He seems to have a burning desire to subjugate the land, as he does animals and people.
That may be a good thing, though.”
“How could that ever be a good thing?”
“Well, it is also true that the white man prefers to dominate, rather than kill.
He seems to kill only that which he cannot farm, enslave, or domesticate:
Like the whales for example.
Maybe by signing this treaty, you will make the Pakeha believe that they are dominating the Maori and the land.
Maybe that will make peace for everyone.
Let the white man think that he has ownership and control.”
“That is ridiculous.
Whatever gave you such a revolting idea?
If the white man thinks that he is Master, then he is.
How do you justify that?”
“Not necessarily.
Now think about it:
I said the white man will
kill
what he cannot control.
That means he will try to control you, but can he really?
Can he control your soul, my friend?
No, and we both know that no one can control the soul of the land.”
Robulla said, “Yes.
I see.
They can kill the body, but they cannot kill the soul.
Very wise, my son.
Perhaps you should come and sign this contract, this
Treaty of Waitangi
.”
“No, I will leave that for the Maori to decide.
You must remember, old man, I am merely a black white man myself.
Besides, the white men you are dealing with now are not the people of my land.
I believe that if these Pakeha do you wrong in this deal, then perhaps they will have the man from my land to deal with someday.”
Robulla said, “Ah, but you are, and always will be, so much more to me.
Thank you, my son.
Now perhaps you should return to your business.”
He pointed toward the hut as he departed.
Black Jack, casting a sideways glance, said, “It is finished.”
Chapter 20
“Five seasons full on, and what do I have to show for it?”
The man asked with a snarl, speaking more to the pot than to the men around him.
“Ah, well, you’ve got quite a nice stroke there, mate!”
One man belted out. The others laughed.
Cook continued to stir the large try-pot at the back of the fire, while he chucked chunks of blubber into the two closer pots with his free hand.
“Thanks, mate, but I mean seriously, what have I got after five years of whaling?”
Cook asked again, annoyed by the taunts of his cohorts.
Richard Cook, his face eerily lit by the glowing coals of the furnace under the pots, sat on the vertebrae of a whale while he stirred the hot oil with a steady sway.
He was an American shore-whaler, a
Yank
as his colleagues affectionately coined him. He had been a regular among the throngs of nubile and seasoned harpooners alike who had come and gone over the years in and around Kakapo.
Jackie’s Bay was what he and this tight circle of compatriots called it now. Anyone who had worked the channel for long came to know Jackie. Knowing Jackie meant respecting the large, burly man who had started the shore-whaling trade in this corner of the world, and realizing that he was still in control of life and law as far as the inhabitants of this stretch of beach were concerned.
“What are you on about, Dick? You ain’t no Captain, Cook.”
Now there was a man
, he thought,
not like this crybaby Yank
.
“You’ve been on more ships than the Tory Channel can hold at one time, and you frittered all your earnings away.”
“You know what I’m talking about.
They work us like dogs when the whales are running, happily take our money for grog and lodging. Then they expect us to bugger off somewhere else as soon as the last whale does!”
“Pipe down, Cook, you don’t know what you are talking about.”
Said another man with an Australian accent.
“If you got along with any of those captains,” he said as he waved his hand over the line of ships moored quietly out in the calm moonlit bay,
“you’d be first out of here to follow the whales with the rest of the lot every time.
Now whose problem is that?”
“No, no, you know that’s not right. I’ve given outstanding service on every ship that I’ve served on.”
“
Service on every ship that I’ve served on?
That makes sense!” Said a third man.
“Sam, Charlie, have you given,
outstanding service on the ships you’ve served on?
”
“Why yes.
Yes I have,
served with outstandingly servile servitude
, on the ships I’ve served on!”
Another said, “Serves you right!”
Everyone but Cook laughed hard.
Cook said, “Yeah, right. You know what I
mean
.”
“All I know,” said the first man, “is that none of those ships wants you.
They’d sooner see you go over the loggerhead tangled in the line than have you hanging about the boat like an albatross.
And that’s no one’s fault but your own.”
Cook asked, “What do you mean?”
“Ah, c’mon mate. You’re always on the piss, even when the rest of us have called it quits.
That’s where all of your money goes.
And then you’re too drunk to stand a proper watch, if you can stand at all.
And as far as your reputation...”
“Now don’t get on about that!”
Cook shouted.
“You know it’s true!” the veteran shot back.
The others stared at the coals, nervously exchanging sideways glances as the argument between these two men heated.
“Now that’s not fair.”
Cook sputtered back as his voice broke.
“Fair, blah!
You are the worst Watch out here.
Hell, what has it been now, three watches in a row you’ve let a fish get right out from under your nose?
Ask Patrick!
He knows!
You saw that one while you were on the pots the other day, right Norton?”
One of the men nodded slowly in silent agreement, looking down so as not to fan the flames of the spat.
“You complain about not having anything, mate.
You’re lucky you’re still here at all, at the rate you’re losing mates and allies!” roared the old man.
“I know, I know.”
Cook quietly conceded.
“But listen:
You guys know I’m not a bad bloke.
I don’t know what it is.
I’ve just had the worst luck lately."
"Luck!
Get off it mate, it's you!" said the old man, disgusted.
"No, listen really, I've got it all figured out." Cook uttered desperately.
He continued with his soliloquy while the others half-listened, resigned to letting him vent rather than waste their breath.
They listened as he began quietly, with how it all began:
His descent into destitution.
They listened to how he had been a fairly successful farmhand; until his employer had accused him of stealing, and his reputation had suffered among the townspeople.
They heard about his hearing about whaling in the South Seas; how lucrative he had heard it was; how a man could make his fortune in only a few years.
He explained how it had been a new start for him.
They listened as he told about not adapting well to sea-faring life, and the code by which sailors live by, being just a simple farmer and all.
He went on and on about how suddenly no one liked him or helped him with unfamiliar tasks, and how the entire crew had ceased to speak to him.
He spoke of the months of isolation, though he was surrounded by men, and how one day he found that “he could do nothing right”; and that he thought he was going insane.
And that is when the corporal punishment began.
His superiors began to present mysterious charges against him to the First Mate.
Small violations at first, such as unsatisfactory tidiness in his quarters; even though, he swore, the state of affairs of his fellow sailors was “ten times worse.”
The First Mate had seemed helpful at first, offering his counsel and advice on the little matters; and always finishing their closed-door talks with a fatherly, “I hope that I’ve helped you, and that you can do better in the future.”