Rich Man's Coffin (51 page)

Now, as the tears streamed down his face by Miss Baillie’s bedside, he calmly formed his cold, callous resolve.
 
No best friend of man can resist a tasty treat
, he thought.
 
My recipe, though, is going to be the final solution to the problem of the damn dogs.

Over the next few months, many canines were found scattered throughout the valley, lying peacefully with no visible signs to explain their mysterious deaths.
 
It was as though they had just lain down and died.
 
Some dogs had become slower over a span of days. Nothing they ate or drank indicated anything unusual that might bring about their demise.
 
Even the Major's dogs had not been spared, a fact that dismayed him enough to bring it up in conversation one day.

"Black Jack, what do you make of all these dogs up an dying all of a sudden? Worms, you reckon?"

"I don't know, Sir.
 
You’ve got me on this one.
 
I love these dogs."
 
Said Black Jack, petting the puppy that the Captain had just picked out of a new litter.
 
"Could be anything, I reckon."

"Well, I don't know about anything, either. I just thought maybe you had run across something like this before."

"Naw, Sir.
 
I ain't never seen nothin' like it before.
 
But I got something that might help."

"Well, let's have at it, then."
 
The Major said.

"All right, Sir, hold on."
 
Said Black Jack.
 
He went into his cabin and returned with a large, green flour tin. He opened it to reveal an aromatic pile of fresh-baked biscuits.
 
He grabbed one and fed it to the small, eager dog.

"Mercy, he's really wolfing that down.
 
What's in those, Black Jack?
 
The little fellow is literally polishing that thing off!"
 
Said the Captain.

         
"Yes, Sir, he is."
 
Said Black Jack.
 
His wry smile held back laughter as he happily recalled measuring out his private stash of government flour in preparation for cooking.
 
His secret recipe called for it to be finely sifted and laced with glass grounds from the old chief's sacred greenstone.
 

"You’ve changed all the dates around."
 
Remarked the Judge. “I know, because I remember when you beat up the Reverend. I was the Judge in that case, remember?”

"Beg your pardon?"
 
said Arpur.

"The dates... the events... the places... you lied in my courtroom.
 
Why?"

"I didn't lie... I just withheld a little of the truth."

"No, wait.
 
You didn't want anyone to know.
 
You were scared!
 
Why?"

"Well, wouldn't you be? I mean, think about it:
 
Would you admit that you took part in some of the bloodiest massacres in history?
 
Would you admit that you were a murderer, a spy, a traitor, and a blasphemer?
 
Thank God, my wisdom outruns my vanity now."

"Perhaps.
 
I don't appreciate your mockery of my court, though. But I can certainly see your point, given the scope of your situation.
 
I will be understanding this time and say that your story grants you a certain license with the truth, in light of how others might unjustly perceive you."

"Thank you, your Honor. I appreciate your patience and interest in listening to the full story.
 
I believe that you are the only one to have heard the entire account."

"It was well worth it, my friend.
 
I do not believe that many people will ever hear such a story as great as The Legend of Black Jack White. Before I retire for the evening and let you get back to the Major’s house, I want to thank you for living such an inspiring life."

"The pleasure was all mine."
 
Said Black Jack.

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!"