Authors: K Martin Gardner
His defiance spattered on the shocked faces of the uniformed men at his door.
One in the front waved a piece of paper. He said, "But you'll lose your orders, Jack.
You'll be discharged without pay. You’ll get no more rations."
"Honestly, I could care less.
I am not leaving my homestead to fight some damn crazy Maori up north.
No sah.
Now you boys carry on.
Good day."
He slammed the door in their faces. As it resonated his resolve, he wondered if he would be called up to Nelson on charges of desertion.
He hoped now more than ever that the army honored its original enlistment policy as a strictly 'voluntary' service.
Only time and the god-awfully slow mail in these parts would tell, he thought.
Black Jack felt entitled to a simple and ordinary life after all he had been through.
He no longer felt obligated to be in service to anyone.
Despite the occasional skirmish and squabble over land here and there, it seemed to him that the Maori-Pakeha relationship had settled into a tolerable level of tension.
Fighting and expansion now seemed to be the norm after the ten years since the Treaty of Waitangi.
As one man who could have remained neutral to the conflict the entire time, Black Jack felt that he had actually helped each side tremendously and should deservedly and perhaps selfishly serve his own needs for a while.
He cynically joked to himself that he had in his short life been all things to all people, and now he just wanted to be left alone.
The wars didn't seem to matter in the larger scheme of things, anyway, he thought.
In just the last year since Robulla died, houses had sprung up all over the valley.
Men came streaming down, building huts out of manuka branches; and within months had constructed large English houses with verandahs and big, comfortable rooms.
At the mouth of the Wairau River, there was now even a new hotel where bottled beer and other creature comforts could be had.
Black Jack now found his silent and tranquil valley full of the sound of pounding hammers and ripping saws all day; and the night was presently pestered with the desperate bleating of thousands of misplaced and unconsciously homesick sheep.
All across the plains he saw them, wherever he scanned:
An endless decoupage of uniform gray and white speckles on an infinite newly-laid green lawn.
If that was not enough to shatter his pristine transcendental shield, then a final addition to the landscape, and a certain insult, was woven in among the wool to completely destroy his calm:
The shepherds' new dogs barked all day and bayed all night.
As if some dark force of misfortune had followed Black Jack full circle from his fateful flight so long ago and found him finally half-way 'round the world, the sign of the canine was an omen which caused his teeth to clench and the hair on his back to bristle.
His hatred for dogs grew to an obsession.
Out of spite, he began steering people away from his land.
He had no shame in doing it, either.
If a white settler were stupid enough to ask him, he reckoned, then he would tell him flat out that the land all around him for many miles was all claimed.
If he were feeling particularly ornery due to the frequency of interruptions to his otherwise peaceful day, then as a parting gift and a proverbial kick in the ass, he would point the persons in the direction of the farthest available piece of swamp land on the survey map.
What really topped his tulips, however, was when settlers, trudging back from the lowlands to Waitohi for supplies, would stop and sincerely and vigorously thank him for his expert guidance.
Amazingly still, he marveled, was that he managed to begin charging some people a fee for telling them where to go, and even received plenty of return business and referrals by word of mouth.
The time told.
The soldiers returned with more papers.
Anything official looking with writing on it scared the hell out of Black Jack. He only showed his fear now out of respect. He stood at attention in the doorway of his hut.
"Yes?"
He asked.
The same young officer as before, now looking seasoned from time in the field, held the scroll and read, "I, Governor of Nelson, do hereby command by proxy, that one Arthur Alesworth, commenced to fulfill his reserve duties; and to be sworn hereto, this ninth day of November, in the year of our Lord, eighteen-hundred and fifty-two.
The duties shall be as follows:
To serve as mail carrier for the postmaster at the new Wairau branch post office.
The fulfillment of these duties will endure until such time as I see fit for the cause of the war.
Failure to commit to this charge will result in arrest and imprisonment.
That is all.
Signed, Governor Eyre."
The soldier dropped his town-crier tone, and said, "You need to sign here, sir."
"Goddamn, I am never volunteering myself for nothin', or signin' anything ever - EVER - again.
I got a job!
You know that?
I've been running odds and ends down the stream for people goin' on two years now.
How'm I 'sposed to do both now?
What does this pay?"
"Sir, we'll bring you your tin of flour every month."
"Flour?
Flour!
I don't
bake
boy.
What'm I gonna do, cook some biscuits?
Did you bring me an apron as well?
Hell, give me that pen.
I'm sick and tired of this whole business."
And with a stroke of the quill, Black Jack became the first postman for the Waitohi valley, including a small settlement downstream, which was becoming popularly known as 'The Beaver'.
It was a place that was situated at opposite side of the top of the valley to the town of Waitohi; and it would soon become its rival.
One prominent figure from Waitohi township wasted no time in setting the undeclared feud in motion when he sardonically remarked, “The beaver town is beautifully situated in a hollow, or swamp, nicely adapted as a natural basin to receive the overflow of the Wairau river as it frequently does.”
Upon reporting to this station, Black Jack was promptly informed that he would also report periodically to different regiments in full military capacity.
That might include war hot spots on the North Island, with extended time away from home.
Wonderful
, he thought.
What the Hell am I fighting for?
Taking his medicine like a man, Black Jack pulled up his bootstraps and got on with the daily routine of working the many jobs that had made their way into his busy schedule of semi-retirement.
He adopted the demeanor of a truculent yet cynical middle-aged man who has too much to do and who would rather be gone fishing.
Becoming a celebrity because of his visible position in the community, Black Jack smiled whiled hailing patrons and sighed wearily when he rode off into the dust between stops.
He was always on the go, with no time to catch his breath until he went to bed at night; although he knew somehow that he was probably not working any harder than he ever had.
It was the expectation of having wanted to slow down that added to his burden, he wisely presumed.
He chastised himself for having to enjoy his work to make it easy, although he did not have an answer for his own immaturity.
At least he still worked alone, he thought, without supervision.
That had always been one of his strong points, he recalled:
To get on top of a job from the start, so others would leave him the hell alone.
So out he rode, day after day, on a mule he called Independence.
If he were going to be tasked with carrying the white man's written words, then he would do it with pride.
Besides, folks in these parts actually seemed friendly and genuinely happy to make his acquaintance, he thought.
It almost made him feel guilty for secretly hating their guts.
As time went on, it seemed that Black Jack ended up doing just about everything
but
deliver the mail.
"You're that fellow that can grow almost anything under the sun around here, aren't you?"
Asked one white gentleman at his gate.
"Tell me now about the difference in this Maori potato and the Irish ones."
Black Jack spent the better part of that afternoon with the man in his garden.
"You know how to cut and cure this confounded Totara wood, don't you fella!"
Exclaimed another hardy settler, anxious to dry in his new house with a solid roofline.
Black Jack spent half a morning there talking about native wood grain.
"Partner, I hear tell that you tamed this wild flax all the way into a pillow.
Is that true?"
Asked a curious older white woman one day.
Black Jack patiently demonstrated his techniques with her and her husband.
She wanted yarn.
Her old man wanted rope.
Black Jack knew it all.
He became the handyman and Jack-of-all-trades for the entire trotting area.
His knowledge and expertise were in constant demand, and he was held in high esteem throughout the community, mostly owing to his humility and good sense of humor.
He sardonically thought to himself that if not for the all-out thrill of it, he at least liked the reward that came with working.
He enjoyed being appreciated, and not being taken for granted.
A sense of importance began to take root in him; and as he lay in bed thinking one night, he realized that he was actually seducing himself into aiding the enemy.
He needed to regain perspective, he thought.
He needed to reach down inside himself, he realized, and bring out that ruthless edge that had emerged in his youth.
He lay there scheming, wondering how to resist the slippery grip of collusion; when in a sudden flash of brilliance, the answer revealed itself to him:
The mail!
Once again, he rejoiced, the white man had tossed the keys to the inmates.
Black Jack could neither read nor write; and yet he realized that a large part of the solution to the Pakeha problem was carried under his nose every single day.
He also knew the man who could best utilize all of that information which was flowing into the land in neat little packets by the boat full.
Tamihana, having been raised a Christian and taught the language of the Pakeha by missionaries, would be the perfect candidate for deciphering intercepted civilian and military mail.
The only problem, thought Black Jack, would be converting him to the cause.
To a Maori guide in the Spring of 1853:
"Relay this message to Tamihana, son of Robulla, in Kaikoura.
From Black Jack White, an ally of your late father.
I realize that your Christian faith and gentleman ways have prevented you from taking up arms against the Pakeha in the land wars.
However, I am sure that you would agree that these wars have nonetheless escalated in the North; and that they threaten peace for us all.
Something must be done.
I am therefore calling on you, in addition to preaching your message, to take action in a manner that I will impart to you.
Can you please make arrangements to visit me, as I cannot leave my post?
Thank you."
Of course Tamihana knew the entire story of Black Jack White, and he was more than happy and honored to row down the coast to White's Bay and inland to Para.
There in Black Jack’s hut on a hot, sunny afternoon, the two chiefs had a meeting of the minds.
Tamihana came with a reverent and open mind.
The two exchanged pleasantries, laughing about good memories, and mourning the bad.
Then Black Jack literally dropped his plan into Tamihana's lap.
Dumping out the contents of his mailbag, Black Jack let fall a multitude of letters and packages as his companion watched them tumble into a pile on the floor.