The Potato Factory

by Bryce Courtenay

  The master of the Sturmvogel took out his wallet and threw it onto the pile in front of Sperm Whale Sally. 'You said it don't mean nothing, so now I'm paying you to cross it out!'

  'Certainly!' Sperm Whale Sally said reaching over and picking up the ten English pounds, and leaving the American ten dollar bill on the table.

  Captain Perriman went to his pocket and produced two more ten dollar bills and placed them on the table.

  Jorgen Jorgensen matched him with another five pounds. 'Now we fight!' he said.

  At that very moment Ikey arrived, pushing his way through the crowd, his basket bouncing on his arm. Sperm Whale Sally saw him coming and threw up her arms and shouted, 'Ikey Solomon, thank Gawd you come! I needs a spruiker what's gunna stop murder happenin'!'

  Ikey looked about him and put his basket under the table. 'What's going on? There is nobody nowhere except here, my dear! The brothels are all closed, the cock fight's over early, all the other public houses be empty.' He pointed to the money on the table. 'Jesus! Who belongs to that?'

  Sperm Whale Sally shook her head and quickly whispered the story to Ikey.

  'Leave the details to me, my dear. I thinks we're going to be rich before this night be out!' Ikey said and then straightened up. 'It's me rheumatism, lift me up on the table please, my dear,' he requested.

  Sperm Whale Sally rose slowly to her feet, and picked him up and placed him on the table.

  'Ladies and gentlemen.' Ikey paused and grinned. 'That is if any here has the right to be called by either salutation!' This brought a laugh from the crowd and he waited for it to die down then paced the length of the table as though deep in thought. Finally he lifted his head and addressed the crowd.

  'What we has here be a puzzlement and a problem, a bedevilment o' purpose and a contradiction o' temperament, what can be summed up and put together as a conundrum what is not easy to solve, my dears.' He spread out his hands and wiggled his long fingers as though they were groping for an invisible object. 'We got two tits! One what's snowy white and t'other what's got an Indian head and Tomahawk wrote all over it!' He paused to accept the laughter of the crowd. 'One what's occupied and one what's vacant! One what's rented and one what's seeking a tenant. And that be the conundrum!'

  Ikey paused and pointed to Tomahawk, who seemed not to have moved a muscle since he'd arrived. 'We have here this most honourable Red Indian gentleman by the name o' Mr Tomahawk! And…' he pointed to Black Boss Cape Town, 'the most worthy gentleman of African extraction by name o' Mr Black Boss Cape Town. Both is true blue and much loved by our very own Sperm Whale Sally!'

  There was a cheer from the crowd at the mention of Sperm Whale Sally's name followed by some laughter at this amorous menage a trois.

  Ikey held his hand up for silence. 'Hands up them who wants to see these two lovely whalemen in a contest o' strength for the gaining o' tenancy to the two most beautiful and imposing and desirable areas o' mammary accommodation in the Pacific Ocean?'

  There was a roar from the patrons and, seemingly, the hands of almost all the drinkers shot up. Ikey turned slightly and from the corner of his mouth whispered, 'Count the money, my dear.'

  Sperm Whale Sally reached over and gathered up the money. She had long since counted it, but now she pretended to do so again.

  'We have here some stiff what could be used as prize money if the two captains here agrees,' Ikey said. The crowd roared their approval and he turned to Jorgen Jorgensen and Blackmouth Perriman. 'What say you, gentlemen?'

  They immediately agreed and Ikey turned to Sperm Whale Sally. 'What be the wager, my dear?'

  'Fifteen pounds English, thirty Yankee dollars, lovey.' It was enough to feed her for several months and she was filled with consternation that Ikey might be giving it away as the wager.

  The crowd gasped, it was a huge amount of money, more than double what a crew member received for a season of whaling. Ikey looked over the heads of the crowd until he saw Michael O'Flaherty. 'Publican! Your presence please!' he called.

  Ikey turned and addressed both captains again. 'Michael O'Flaherty be as good a man as ever tapped a barrel of ale, gentlemen. Will you accept him to hold your money? If you do not agree to accept the rules o' the contest, then you shall have every penny back.'

  Both captains nodded and O'Flaherty gathered up the money on the table. Ikey held his hand up until he had absolute silence.

  'Ladies and gentlemen, as you knows Sperm Whale Sally will not tolerate violence.' He pointed to Tomahawk and Black Boss Cape Town. 'And no harm is to come to her true blue lads.' He paused so the full effect of his pronouncement could be heard. 'So, I now announces a grand contest of Indian arm wrestlin'!'

  There was a groan from the crowd. Their minds were intent on the idea of a bloody fight between the two giant savages, and though a contest of arm wrestling would decide equally well who was the superior of the two, there is nothing like the taste of blood to excite a crowd.

  Captain Perriman tapped his long stick on the table. 'And what about the money?' he demanded.

  Ikey shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. 'Why, my dear, the winner takes all!'

  Sperm Whale Sally looked as though she might faint away and standing up shakily she slapped at Ikey's ankle. 'Oi! You gorn mad or somethin'?' she said in a loud whisper.

  Ikey bent down so that only she could hear his reply. 'Trust me, my dear.' Then he straightened up and addressed the crowd. 'The winner o' the grand arm wrestlin' stakes all his winnings on the second grand contest o' the night!'

  'Two contests?' Captain Jorgen Jorgensen asked. 'Why does not one decide?'

  'Two grand arm wrestlin' contests!' Ikey replied, ignoring him. 'But first the rules and conditions! If Tomahawk should win then he will be given a chance to enter a second arm wrestlin' challenge, and if he should win this too, then the Merryweather tattoo stays!'

  There was a roar of approval from the crowd. It meant that the Tomahawk tattoo would be truly earned in virtuous combat.

  'If Black Boss Cape Town wins then we crosses out the tattoo and he may challenge again, and if he wins again then he will have a tattoo of the Sturmvogel placed upon the breast of Sperm Whale Sally!'

  'And if each should win one contest?' Captain Perriman asked.

  'That won't be possible, Captain,' Ikey said firmly. 'The second contest will be followed immediately after the first and will be against the wrestlin' arm o' Sperm Whale Sally!'

  There was a moment of astonished silence, then the crowd burst into laughter at such an absurd idea. Ikey avoided looking at Sally so he did not see the look of utter dismay on her face. Had she been an integral part of some elaborate scam where she was required to act out her consternation in order to gull her mark, she could not possibly have performed better. She had trusted Ikey and he had caused her to lose a fortune.

  Ikey turned to the two masters. 'Are you agreed, gentlemen?'

  'That be most fair,' Captain Perriman, the first to recover from the surprise at this absurd idea, replied.

  'Aye, it be right by us,' the master of the Sturmvogel said, still smiling at the idea of arm wrestling the giant whore.

  'Mr O'Flaherty, will you please bring the stools and table for the contest?' Ikey asked. Then he announced to the crowd, 'Ladies and gentlemen, I shall be running a book, though only for your sporting interest, so that some o' the fine gentlemen here tonight might double their money!' He paused and took a breath, 'It's evens I offers on both contestants!'

  What this meant, of course, was that Ikey could make no profit from the betting and this was thought most sporting by all, so there was considerable applause. 'One more detail, my dears!' Ikey shouted. 'I shall be offering twenty to one odds on Sperm "Whale Sally, and two to one on whoever wins the first contest! As this contest will take place immediately after the first you should lay your bets for both now!'

  There was a general guffaw. Had the odds even been two hundred to one placed on Sperm Whale Sally, only a fool would have ventured a s
hilling on the likelihood of her winning. But the chance of doubling their money on either Black Boss Cape Town or Tomahawk was a most attractive proposition. It is a testimony to greed that, in a room full of cut throats and thieves, no one paused to suspect Ikey's motives or ask how he would pay his bets if Sperm Whale Sally lost.

  Meanwhile, Sperm Whale Sally was quite beside herself. 'You'll not count me in on the betting, Ikey Solomon!' she said, her voice fraught with anxiety. 'I can't cover no losses.'

  'Has I ever let you down in the past, my dear? Have you not profited gloriously in our mutual dealings?'

  'Ha! That were before! But now I thinks you've gorn meshugannah! We've lost all that lovely money, now you's making barmy bets and I'm gunna end up with some bastard writin' all over me tits with a bloody needle!'

  'Trust me, my dear, leave it all to your Uncle Ikey! At worst, maybe a little scratch on your titty. But there be a lot o' stiff to be won.' He paused and added, 'That reminds me, my dear, naturally we goes fifty-fifty with the winnings?'

  'What bleedin' winnin's! You just gave the bloody money back to them two bastards!' She stabbed a finger in the direction of the ships' masters. 'You said winner takes all!'

  'Only temporarily, my dear. Only for the Irishman to hold so everything looks kosher, above board, and exceedingly honest, and not to be doubted. In truth our winnings, my dear? Do you agree, fifty-fifty?'

  'Jesus!' Sperm Whale Sally threw up her hands. 'Yes! Fifty-fifty o' fuck all! 'Elp your bleedin' self!' She looked as though she might cry. 'Ikey, how am I gunna arm wrestle one o' them monsters?'

  'Now don't you fret, my dear, it be so easy it ain't even a proper scam worthy o' my intelligence!'

  The table and stools were set in place for the contest, and the two giants made to take their seats. Michael O'Flaherty was given the role as the referee and the two masters were appointed as judges.

  The rules of arm wrestling are universal and simple enough. The first man to push the back of the hand of his opponent to the table and hold it there for a count of three would be declared the winner. Ten minutes was allowed for the two contestants to tune up their muscles by building up a proper resistance against the arms of members of their own crew.

  Ikey used the time to make book and as he expected, after each punter had bet on his favourite, he bet his winnings to continue on the winner of the first bout so that not a single bet was placed on Sperm Whale Sally.

  Two glasses of fiery Cape brandy were brought and placed in front of Tomahawk and Black Boss Cape Town. Tomahawk had not uttered a word all evening and his silence, contrasted with the ebullient black man, had made him the favourite to win, the strength of silence being reckoned greater than the force of bombast.

  Black Boss Cape Town lifted the brandy in his left hand, and bending his right arm showed his huge bicep to the crowd. 'We fight!' he said looking directly at Tomahawk and then threw back his head and tossed down the fiery drink in one gulp.

  Tomahawk picked up his glass and for the very first time he looked at the huge black savage seated opposite him. 'You die, nigger!' he said and he too tossed down his brandy.

  Black Boss Cape Town smiled and placed his glass down and reached out and patted Tomahawk on the top of his head. 'Goet boy!'

  The Red Indian shot up from his stool and grabbed the throat of the huge black man. But Black Boss Cape Town had anticipated the move and his own hand moving from Tomahawk's head simultaneously clasped around the throat of the American savage. Then Tomahawk's left hand, still holding the brandy glass, slammed down on the edge of the table and in a flash the raw edge of the broken glass smashed into the face of his opponent. A huge crimson arc appeared under Black Boss Cape Town's eye as the jet black skin of his face opened up.

  Black Boss Cape Town did not appear to flinch nor even lighten his grip on Tomahawk's throat, but his left fist swung around and smashed against the side of Tomahawk's face. A great hammer blow which felled the Red Indian. The big black pushed the table over and raised his boot to kick Tomahawk in the face when he was suddenly jerked backwards off his feet by a huge arm which gripped him about the neck in a wrestler's stranglehold. Thrown off balance, he could do nothing as Sperm Whale Sally's arm tightened about his throat.

  'Now, now, there's a good gentleman, we'll have none o' that!' she hissed into his ear. She held Black Boss Cape Town in a lethal grip as the crew of the Merryweather hurried to pull the bewildered Tomahawk to his feet. Sperm Whale Sally increased her grip on Black Boss Cape Town and addressed the two startled captains. 'You will have your men arm wrestle or not at all, there will be no fights, do you understand, gentlemen?'

  Black Boss Cape Town was near to fainting from the pressure she applied and should he have tried to regain his feet his neck would have snapped like a twig. Both captains nodded and Sperm Whale Sally spoke to her captive. 'Do you understand, Mr Black Boss Cape Town?'

  An almost imperceptible sound came from the black man's throat. 'Bring me some sea sponges, Bridget!' she shouted towards the bar. 'And a bucket o' salt water!' She turned to Black Boss Cape Town. 'Sit down, lad, lemme fix your ugly gob!' Then Sperm Whale Sally released the huge harpooner from her deadly grip and pushed him into her whale's tail chair. 'Be there a doctor?' she shouted as she took a sponge from Bridget and applied pressure to the wound on Black Boss Cape Town's face.

  It was not unusual for a member of the medical profession, either surgeon or dentist, to be present in a public house. And in a few moments, Surgeon Balthasar Tompkins stepped from the crowd and waddled towards where Sally sat. It was obvious he was somewhat the worse for wear and he rocked on his heels as he examined Black Boss Cape Town's face.

  'Horsehair!' he bellowed. 'Horsehair and needle!'

  In a few moments his young male assistant appeared carrying a bag and it was he who appeared to be doing all the work. But then he handed the needle and horsehair to the physician, who stitched the wound with surprising dexterity, neatly snipping each knot as he worked.

  Throughout the procedure Black Boss Cape Town remained calm, only flinching slightly during the suturing. Finally the fat physician completed the task and Sperm Whale Sally wiped what remained of the blood from his face. It was a crude enough job, but it held well and there had not been sufficient blood loss for Black Boss Cape Town to have lost any of his strength.

  At that moment Ikey's small frightened face appeared from under Sperm Whale Sally's Tasmanian oak table and, seeing all was well again, he emerged completely and assumed a nonchalant position.

  'The bets are laid. The Indian arm wrestle contest be still on!' he shouted at Michael O'Flaherty. 'What say you, gentlemen?'

  The crowd yelled their approval, and the two ships' masters glanced at each other and after a few moments nodded their consent. Ikey breathed a huge sigh of relief. He felt quite weak at the knees at the thought of losing the money.

  The two men walked slowly back to the stools. 'To your positions, please,' O'Flaherty called. The Irishman held up a large red bandanna. 'Take the strain. Go!' he shouted, dropping the cloth.

  The two men's arms stiffened as they took the strain, one then the other making his play. Pressure was slowly applied which would bend one arm close to the surface of the table while the onlookers screamed their encouragement to the man on whom they had placed their bet. Sweat fell from their faces and chests, and the linen of their coarse shirts was soaked through, but still there was no advantage to either. Sometimes they would rest in the centre, and then one would try a sudden lunge to catch the other by surprise. But while both came close to victory, neither could lay the other's hand down upon the table.

  After forty minutes it was obvious that the strength was leaching from both men, though it appeared that Tomahawk was gradually gaining the advantage. The Red Indian was the younger man and, in the end, it seemed he would prove the stronger. The muscles on both their arms strained mightily, and at one point the biceps of Black Boss Cape Town started to cramp and he knew he must surely lose. The
strain as he held his opponent's arm was so intense that the blood started to pump from between the sutures on his face and run down his cheek. Then, just as he felt his strength finally deserting him, the Red Indian's eyes suddenly filled with pain as he, too, was gripped by a violent muscle spasm and his huge biceps convulsed and his nose started to bleed copiously.

  Still they held on, the Indian forcing the black man's hand almost to the table top, before it would be slowly lifted, each movement greatly taxing both wrestlers. The punters had taken to screaming with each turnabout as though, by their voices alone, they could add strength to the man they had backed.

  Finally Tomahawk began to sense he had the black man's measure. The front of both their shirts was now drenched with blood as well as sweat. Beads of perspiration shone in the crinkly hair of Black Boss Cape Town, and the smooth dark hair of his opponent lay soaked against his coppery skin. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Tomahawk worked his opponent's arm, forcing it towards the surface of the table. Black Boss Cape Town's hand was no more than an inch from the table when he spat into Tomahawk's face.

  The shock was so great that the giant Red Indian lost control, and Black Boss forced his hand back to the upright position, and then over to the other side so that Tomahawk's hand was now only an inch from the table on the African's side.

  Suddenly there rose in Tomahawk's throat a cry that seemed to come from deep within his belly as the black man's bloody spittle ran down his face. His eyes burned in his head as his hand rose and rose, pushing the negro's fist to the upright position and then slowly down, until, with a second great wail, he smashed the top of Black Boss Cape Town's hand onto the table. It was all over. Tomahawk had won the contest, though both men were too exhausted to lift their heads, and their arms lay limp and useless on the table.