Potato Factory

by Bryce Courtenay

  As the brandy worked its way through Ikey’s bloodstream he began to imagine that it had been another life altogether. A primary existence, lived before this one of endless misery and despair, where his money had bought him respect and the royal title of thieves. Men had touched the brim of their cloth caps and mumbled a respectful greeting as he passed by or stood beside the ratting ring. Now he was reduced to human vermin, dirt, scum, the dregs of society, less even than the crud that clung to the hairy arses of the settlers who had the nerve to call themselves gentlemen.

  And then the fiery liquid began to dance in his veins and Ikey cast his mind back seven years to when, in a flush of foolish sentiment, he had sent money and his Waterloo medal to Mary in Newgate. He’d all but forgotten Mary’s existence, and Hannah’s reminder had come as a shock. Occasionally, when he had first worked in the road gang, and especially when Billygonequeer had been with him, he would think of Mary with a sense of longing. But it was always in the past tense, as though she was dead, used up in his life. Ikey never thought that they might meet again, and after a while Mary had simply come closest to the words ‘To my one and only blue dove,’ which were inscribed about the circle of roses surrounding two blue doves tattooed on his scrawny upper arm. The brandy in Ikey’s blood settled into a mellow fluidity, and he grew sentimental, imagining what it might be like if he should find Mary again.

  But at this point he made the fatal error of ordering a second glass of the fiery grape. The moment of sentimentality soon passed, and was replaced with an unreasoning rage. Stumbling home Ikey proceeded to yell violent obscenities until Hannah, David, Ann and Sarah collectively surrounded him. But after four years on a road gang cart, the former weakling was greatly increased in strength and each of them received several bony blows from Ikey’s elbows before he was finally subdued.

  Young Mark took off with great speed and shortly afterwards returned with George Madden who, acting in his capacity as a constable, arrested Ikey and locked him in the gaol house. Here Ikey shouted and screamed all night, cursing the perfidy of his family, with particular reference to the sexual prowess of ‘the grand whore to whom I have the misfortune to be married’.

  The police lock-up stood only a few yards from a public house. Ikey’s boisterous remarks carried clearly into the street and quickly attracted the drinkers inside. Soon a fair crowd had gathered. By morning the small town of New Norfolk was agog with the whispered tales of Ikey’s night in gaol. Ikey’s family had finally had enough, and David caused him to be brought before the deputy police magistrate, where he was charged with drunkenness and violent conduct.

  The case must have seemed clear enough to blind Freddy. But such is the nature of small towns, and so deep was the resentment held by the good burghers over Hannah’s adultery with George Madden and, perhaps more precisely, her subsequent snooty behaviour towards all, that the charges were dismissed. The deputy police magistrate ruled that equal blame was attached to both parties. He warned both husband and wife that should such disorderly proceedings be repeated they would be returned to prison. Then, to the chagrin of some, and great amusement of most, he charged the assistant district constable, George Madden, to keep an eye on both husband and wife.

  With the protection of George Madden, Hannah and David could do more or less as they wished and they lost no time in reducing Ikey to a most perilous state. He was unable to obtain work of any sort, though in this endeavour he did not seem to try very hard, and a word from the wealthy and influential Madden put a stop to any employer hiring him. David had also spread the word around that Ikey cheated at cribbage, which was true enough, so that there were none who would play with him, and this dried up Ikey’s traditional source of drinking money.

  Finally a desperate Ikey was provoked into prosecuting his wife. The deputy district magistrate, not at all pleased with the return of the miscreant couple to his court, to the delight of the townsfolk, brought in a verdict that the charge of disorderly conduct and the use of obscene language was proved. He ordered that Hannah be returned to the Female Factory for a period of three months.

  After many such disputes, the authorities became thoroughly disenchanted with ‘The tribe of Solomon’ as the chief probationary officer was wont to call Ikey’s family. After some interdepartmental discussion, the authorities made one final ruling. The family should attempt a reconciliation in New Norfolk. But, if this should not come about, either husband or wife, but not both, must move to Hobart Town, with or without the remainder of the family. Having moved, they would not be permitted to return to New Norfolk until they received a conditional pardon. The authorities saw this as a clause so onerous that the quarrelsome couple would make every possible effort to reconcile their differences.

  But, of course, no such thing happened. At first Hannah tried to persuade George Madden to move to Hobart, but he refused. He had obtained a five-year contract from Peter Degraves of the Cascade Brewery for the excellent barley grown in the area which would allow him to build his own mill. Hannah, faced with this logic, was forced to capitulate. Somehow she must force Ikey to move to Hobart, and in this endeavour she received the full co-operation of her family.

  With no recourse to the law, Ikey was a doomed man. Hannah ordered him out of the house first thing each morning and he was not allowed to enter it again until curfew in the evening. His only sustenance was a small plate of boiled potatoes, and no member of the family would deign to talk to him.

  Each day Ikey became more of the vagabond. His bald pate went unprotected from the sun and the unkempt hair either side of it now fell to his shoulders. Somewhere he had acquired a great coat which he tied about his waist with coarse string. This ragged garment served him in appearance as his splendid bespoke great coat had once served him in England. But whereas a glance at the greasy original would have revealed the quality of the wool and sound workmanship beneath the dirt, this equally dirty coat was poorly made and threadbare. Ikey’s yellow London boots now became his prison shoes, scuffed and broken away at the toe.

  Ikey Solomon, Prince of Fences, the most celebrated criminal of his time, was brought to his knees, not by the vicissitudes of a prisoner’s life, but by the unforgiving judgements of his wife and children.

  Hannah was now frequently seen in the company of George Madden, though she had not yet moved back into his spacious home. She waited until Ikey had reached a point of abject despair and then offered him an ultimatum; he must give her the combination and also sell the cottage in Hobart so that David might use the money to go to England to open the Whitechapel safe. But to this she added a new clause. Ikey would not receive half of their shared fortune, but only one-eighth.

  Hannah had decided that the entire fortune was to be divided equally between the two of them and their six children. She knew that a one-eighth share of the contents of the safe was still sufficient for Ikey to live in comparative luxury for the remainder of his life in Van Diemen’s Land. With seven-eighths of their combined fortune under her direct control, Hannah told herself she was willing to sacrifice an estimated fifty thousand pounds, ‘for being well rid of the mangy bastard’.

  If he did not agree to these conditions, Hannah told him, he could go to hell. She would live with George Madden and wait for Ikey to die. Whereupon she would send her sons to England to remove the safe and bring it to Van Diemen’s Land, where they would eventually find some way to open it. Ikey knew this threat to be idle, the safe having been fixed into a block of mortar too large to lift and, besides, it was fitted with a German combination lock of the same type used by the Bank of England, and no cracksman in Britain could ever hope to open it. But he was possessed of a morbid foreboding of his own death, and Hannah’s willingness to wait until it occurred meant that he might die a pauper, a useless old lag, never able to enjoy the revenge of his wealth.

  Ikey knew he should leave New Norfolk and move to Hobart. But he could not bring himself to do so for he lacked the necessary courage to cut himself off from his fami
ly. Ikey, the rich loner with a family for whom he cared not at all, was a far cry from Ikey, the poor loner with no future prospects, who lacked the internal fortitude and even the energy to begin again in the chancy business of crime.

  Ikey tried to convince himself that Hobart was too small for a fence of his reputation, but he knew this to be only an excuse. His bones ached and the yellow teeth rattled in his head, and he saw death in every sunset. Ikey knew he would not survive another sentence. Fear gripped at his bowels and sucked the marrow of resolve from his bones, until it was better to get drunk than to think at all.

  Sometimes, when the sun shone brightly and warmed his creaking bones, Ikey would consider his prospects in a more sober frame of mind. He could go kosher, that is to say, above board and respectable, a small businessman, perhaps a return to his tobacco shop. The sale of the cottage would supply the capital needed. But he knew in his heart that this was simply a quicker and quieter way to die.

  Ikey loved the nocturnal life, the whispers and the knowing looks of criminal intrigue, the hard-eyed bargaining, the joy of a deal well struck and the satisfaction of a neatly laid-out ledger which marked in numbers the progress of his private war against those who would bring him undone. He thought of himself as the enemy, and expected to be taken seriously by the rich and mighty. He was the destructive element in a world carefully constructed to benefit the self-serving better classes. Ikey had beaten the law dozens of times in a system that thought nothing of hanging a boy for stealing twopence. And now the same system had beaten him, not with imprisonment, but by stealing his courage. Ikey knew that, without courage, there is no luck and no hope. He who dares, wins. For him to become a respectable small businessman on an island steeped in the blood and sorrow of the outrageous system against which he had always pitted his cunning and his wits would be the greatest defeat of all.

  Ikey needed the fortune which lay in the Whitechapel safe to publicly proclaim the victory of his salvaged wealth. He knew he had been defeated. But the money he had stolen would at least allow him to flaunt his pyrrhic victory and so hide the immensity of that defeat, whereas meek respectability would forever emphasise his complete destruction.

  This was the state of Ikey Solomon in October 1837 when he sat alone on the banks of the Derwent River watching a cormorant on a rock some distance off, its wet wings opened wide to the heat of the late morning sun.

  ‘Mr Solomon?’ The voice of a small boy came from behind him.

  Ikey turned to see an urchin of about twelve standing a few feet to his left. The Ikey of old would have long since sensed the approach.

  ‘Mr Ikey Solomon?’ the boy repeated.

  ‘You knows it’s me, boy, so why does you ask?’ Ikey said gruffly.

  ‘I was told I must,’ the boy replied.

  ‘Told was you? And who might it be what told you?’

  ‘I runs errands, sir,’

  ‘Runs errands?’ Ikey’s voice changed to a more friendly tone. ‘A working boy, a respectable boy, a boy what’s not footloose and up to no good!’ Ikey held a dirty hand out in the direction of the boy. ‘Ah, I don’t believe we ‘as been introduced, my dear.’

  ‘I knows who you is,’ the urchin said, not taking Ikey’s hand and seeing no reason to proffer his own or give Ikey his name.

  ‘Ha! So you knows who I is. But you asks who I is. Is that not a curious thing to do? Askin’ and knowin‘?’ Ikey returned his hand to his side.

  ‘Them what give me the letter said I must ask first.’

  Ikey’s eyebrows arched in surprise. ‘A letter! You ‘as a letter for Ikey Solomon? I don’t recall as I’ve ‘ad a letter recently. Would you ‘ave it in mind to tell me who gave you this precious letter?’

  ‘Why?’ the boy asked. Ikey immediately marked him as intelligent, a rare enough occurrence among the dull-brained urchins who roamed the streets of New Norfolk throwing stones at dogs and chickens.

  ‘A very good question, my dear! An excellent and most perspicacious question! You see, my dear, there are some letters you will receive in life what are not to your advantage, a letter, for instance, what might contain a summons or a warrant. A letter is not always best opened or even received, if you takes my meaning.’

  ‘I’ve never ‘ad a letter,’ the boy replied, unimpressed by this first cautionary lesson in life.

  ‘That’s a bloomin’ shame, boy!’

  ‘Not if you can’t read, it ain’t,’ the urchin shot back.

  What a waste of a boy! Ikey thought. How well this one would have done at the Academy of Light Fingers.

  ‘Who? Who was it gave you the letter what I might take, or I might not? Being as I might be Mr Isaac Solomon, and yet I might decide not to be!’

  ‘It come off a boat from ‘Obart. The cap’n. ‘E asks if I knows you and when I does ‘e give me an ‘apenny and. . .’ the boy dug into the interior of his shirt and produced an envelope, ‘. . .’e give me this ‘ere letter.’

  ‘What does it say on the envelope?’ Ikey asked.

  The boy shrugged. ‘I already told you, I don’t do no readin’.’ He took two steps closer to the seated Ikey and proffered the envelope.

  ‘Well that be another shame, boy, a bright lad like you what can’t read? Tut, tut, must learn to read, boy. There are no prospects for a lad what can’t read, no prospects whatsoever, and never to be ‘eard of!’ He glanced up at the urchin. ‘Do you hear me, boy?’

  ‘Don’t you want your letter?’ the urchin said and then added, ‘I ain’t no toff what needs to learn to read.’

  Ikey still refrained from taking the letter. ‘Can you count, boy?’ It had been several days since he had sustained any sort of conversation, and the bright morning sun had ironed out some of his aches and pains, and it was like old times talking to the urchin standing beside him.

  ‘Yessir, I can count real good.’

  ‘Pennies in a shilling?’

  ‘Twelve!’ the boy snapped back.

  ‘Shillings in a pound?’

  ‘Twenty,’ the boy said with alacrity, then added spontaneously, ‘Four farving in a penny and two ‘a’pennies, a guinea be a pound and one shillin’ and I can count good to one ‘undred and poss’bly even a thousand, but I ain’t tried yet!’

  ‘Bravo!’ Ikey exclaimed and clapped in applause. ‘Bravo! Methinks you should still learn to read, but you’ve got the right idea.’ Ikey smiled at the boy. ‘I’m sorry, lad, but I ‘aven’t got a ha’penny nor even a farthing to give you for this splendid delivery of yours.’ Ikey now finally took the letter from the boy’s hand.

  ‘That’s orright, sir,’ the boy replied. Then he cocked his head to one side and squinted down at Ikey. ‘You ain’t got even a farving, eh?’ he asked somewhat incredulously.

  Ikey shook his head, ashamed. ‘Nothing, lad. . .I’m sorry. Next time I sees you I might ‘ave one, or even a penny and you shall ‘ave it!’

  The boy dug into his trouser pocket and produced a sixpence which he rested on his thumb and forefinger and then flipped high into the air. The sunlight caught the bright silver coin as it spun, arched and descended and the boy slapped it onto the back of his hand and glanced down at it.

  ‘It’s ‘eads! You lose!’ he proclaimed happily. Then pocketing the coin he squinted at Ikey again. ‘I suppose you is now gunna tell me you earned your present fortune ‘cos you was so good at readin’?’

  ‘Cheeky bugger!’ Ikey shouted and made as if to rise. But the boy had already turned on his heels and was running up the steep bank of the river, his bare feet sending small pebbles and clods of red earth rolling into the water below. ‘You’ll go far, lad, that I’ll vouch!’ Ikey called after him, laughing.

  ‘Cheer’o, mister,’ the boy shouted back. ‘See you in the library, then!’

  Ikey looked down at the envelope in his hand. Mr. Isaac Solomon Esq., was all it said, in an annoyingly familiar copperplate script. Ikey opened it very slowly, as though it might explode in his hands, and carefully unfolded the note.
To his surprise it contained two one pound notes. He held each note in turn up to the sunlight to ascertain that they were genuine, then he began to read.

  Hobart Town.

  25th October 1837

  Dear Mr Solomon,

  I have need of a good clerk who can keep an accurate ledger. If such a position should interest you, I urge you to come to Hobart and to make yourself known to the undersigned. I enclose the sum of two pounds to defray any expenses involved.

  I remain, yours sincerely,

  Mary Abacus. (Miss).

  The Potato Factory.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Mary’s first triumph in the brewing of beer did not come from the amber liquid itself, although it was conceded by most to be an excellent ale, crisp and clean to the taste and light on the stomach, but came instead from the label she placed on each bottle. As labels go it lacked any sign of the artistic but made up for this with words that caused the Temperance Society to recommend her product to all who had taken ‘The Pledge’. Those of her customers who could read took great pleasure in the story on the label, and those who could not would soak the label off and have someone read it aloud so that they might share the exquisite feeling of righteousness it gave them.

  Sold into Slavery

  ‘Tom Jones is sold into slavery!’ said a man to me the other day.

  ‘Sold into slavery!’ I cried. ‘Is there anything like that now-a-days?’