Potato Factory

by Bryce Courtenay

  Only in this way could a Blue Sally be won for a whaling ship and when the fleet was in, no night passed without a challenger. But when the fleet put back to sea there were very few ‘who newly flew the Sally Blue’, and many who swore they would return to try again.

  There were also a few greatly envied ships who flew a ‘Two Sally Blue’, a flag which sported upon it two sperm whales, indicating successful challenges on two separate occasions.

  And then there were the two vessels, the Sturmvogel and the Merryweather, who flew the ‘True Blue’, a Blue Sally which carried stitched against its white background three great sperm whales. Each one had been won by the ship by the two giant men, the negro, Black Boss Cape Town, who claimed to come from a tribe deep in the African wilderness somewhere north of the Cape of Good Hope, and Tomahawk, the Red Indian, a Cheyenne from the American wilderness. Both men stood six feet and seven inches tall and could not walk frontways through the door of the Whale Fishery without touching the posts on either side.

  In the manner of sailors there were some men, big men too, who when drunk enough would challenge the ‘nigger’ or the ‘injun savage’, but none were known who had remained on their feet beyond a blow delivered from the giant fist of either man. As winners of the True Blue they were occasioned the favours of Sperm Whale Sally without payment whenever they were in port. Although this had never occurred simultaneously, there was much speculation among whalemen as to what would be the consequence if this should happen, as everyone agreed, sooner or later, the two men must meet in combat.

  The whaling season that year was a good one and the ships came into port, their holds fully loaded with whale oil and the promise of a big payout for the crews. The whole of Hobart Town prepared for the windfall of several hundred whalers let loose on the town with cash jingling in the pockets of their canvas ducks.

  When the Sturmvogel came in on the morning tide and the Merryweather on the evening, both flying the True Blue, it was Pegleg Midnight who was the first to alert Sperm Whale Sally as she struggled to alight from a hired landau at ten o’clock of the night when her day began. Among much giggling and moaning she locked her great arms about the shoulders of the diminutive driver who, as she finally alighted, was momentarily obscured, smothered in a mountain of baby blue satin and pink flesh.

  ‘Better stay home tonight, Sperm Whale Sally,’ Pegleg shouted across to her.

  ‘What, and starve to death!’ Sperm Whale Sally called back. ‘What be the matter, lovey?’

  ‘Black Boss Cape Town and Tomahawk both be in town!’ Pegleg said.

  Sperm Whale Sally looked back at the landau. It took four men to load her but only one to set her down, so she shrugged. The two whaling vessels might be in for a fortnight or more, besides she hadn’t been eating much all day, and had already been booked for a Blue Sally contest. And so she laughed and shrugged her shoulders. ‘Ah well, may the best man win!’ she said cheerily, then made her way slowly towards the Whale Fishery where a light supper of a roast leg of mutton and a dish of potatoes awaited her ravenous attention.

  Pegleg Midnight, known by all to be a terrible gossip, was, surprisingly, not yet motherless drunk. Before the evening was an hour older he had caused word to be spread around all the dockside pubs, brothels, cock fights, sly grog shops and gaming dens, that Black Boss Cape Town and Tomahawk would square off at midnight, their prize the singular favours of the giant whore Sperm Whale Sally.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  Evening has a short stay in Hobart Town, a soft, still light that squeezes in between day and night as the great mountain sucks the last splash of sun into its rounded belly. Far below the wide river lies flat, like a sheet of tin, and the hills on its distant shore grow smoky and vague to the eye. Then night comes quicky, as though there should be a clap of thunder to accompany such wizardry.

  It is as if the town sits in the hollow of a great hand which snaps its malicious fingers shut and crushes it into darkness. Voices grow still, dogs cease to bark and the wash of the incoming tide slaps hard and cold to the ear.

  And then a silver glow rises across the river and comes to dance upon the fist of blackness and, as though cajoled by the light, the hand slowly opens to the candle of a rising moon. New stars pin themselves to the cold, high firmament and the night in Hobart Town is begun.

  Such was the night when Tomahawk, the giant Red Indian, met Black Boss Cape Town in the Whale Fishery for the exclusive rights to the fair hand of Sperm Whale Sally.

  Both men were legends in South Pacific and Antarctic waters, harpooners with a hundred and more kills to their name, and each had earned the True Blue which flew with pride from the masts of their ships.

  Luck is a curious companion, it comes to those who believe they hold it, and is an elusive servant to those who doubt they possess it. The conviction that luck is your willing partner brings with it a sharper eye, a keener spirit, a willingness to take more chances, work harder, start earlier and work later. Luck bears the nostrils of success, for it can smell good fortune at a distance and leads those who possess it as surely to its source as a Sabbath roast does to the nose of a pious verger.

  The men who sailed on the Merryweather and the Sturmvogel thought themselves blessed with good fortune and so their catches seemed blessed and a cut above the rest of the whaling fleet.

  Moreover, the Americans on the Merryweather regarded their crew to be of an even higher status than the Danish ship, for it was rumoured that Sperm Whale Sally carried a tattoo on her enormous right breast which bore the name Tomahawk. It had always been obvious to them that she favoured their man, and therefore their ship, above any other. Now, when they heard that this was not so, that the giant whore had issued a challenge to see who would win her favour, they had grown most indignant and then angry. They were convinced that their harpooner must teach Black Boss a lesson, and establish for all time their supremacy in the South Pacific.

  On the Sturmvogel a similar dilemma existed. They knew about the tattoo, and reckoned how the Americans, known in Hobart Town as ’Jonathans’, would think their man most especially favoured by Sperm Whale Sally.

  They were first to arrive at the Whale Fishery, preceded by Pegleg Midnight who hobbled in on his dummy leg playing his fiddle at a furious pace so that almost all turned their heads. Pegleg continued to play until he reached the huge chair at the end of the challenge table and which was known as ‘the Whale’s Tail’. It was made of solid Tasmanian oak with the scene of John Rackham riding on the tail of a sperm whale, carved into its backrest. It was where Sperm Whale Sally always sat. Another identical chair, adorned with a carving of the Blue Sally, stood at the other end of the table and was known as ‘the Flagging Chair’, which was where the challenger sat. Pegleg Midnight brought his fiddle to a crescendo before abruptly stopping in the middle of the highest note.

  ‘They be comin’, Black Boss Cape Town and the crew and master o’ the Sturmvogel, and by all appearances they be most angry!’ he shouted.

  He had hardly completed this announcement when Black Boss Cape Town’s giant body filled the doorway of the Whale Fishery. He stooped and pushed himself through the door, his shoulders touching either side of the door frame. Black Boss Cape Town walked over to where Sperm Whale Sally sat and upon his dark face was a most mischievous and charming grin. Then he stooped, and in a single movement picked her up and swung her around to face the astonished onlookers. Sperm Whale Sally squealed, but when she realised she was held securely her cries changed to delight. ‘Goet, goet, much goet, Sperm Whale Sally!’ the giant black man announced, and then swung her around again and deposited her neatly back into the chair.

  Sperm Whale Sally, somewhat flustered and red in the face, declared ‘I guarantee ‘e be a most pleasin’ ‘arpooner!’ and wobbled with laughter. The tension was broken, and those who had come to witness the great bout were swept up in her merriment. Finally she jiggled to a halt and smiled sweetly at Black Boss Cape Town. ‘Welcome, lovey, it be grand to see
you safe returned! I trusts the True Blue flew true for you and that all your barrels be full o’ the good oil?’ She turned to the master of the Sturmvogel. ‘Evenin’, capt’n’, then shouted towards the bar. ‘Betsy, lovey, bring a double pint tankard o’ Bitter Rosie for Mr Black Boss Cape Town, please, and a noggin o’ best rum for the good capt’n!’

  ‘We have come to fight!’ Captain Jorgensen said suddenly in a raised voice. ‘But also we must have a condition, if you please!’

  Sperm Whale Sally looked up, shocked. ‘Fight? What fight may that be then, capt’n?’

  Jorgen Jorgensen drew back, momentarily nonplussed, having assumed everything to be settled, and that the idea of the fight had come from Sperm Whale Sally herself.

  ‘You said, may the best man win!’ Pegleg Midnight chipped in. ‘Black Boss Cape Town ‘ere come to fight the injun! They ‘as to fight to see what ship lays the top claim to you, to the luck o’ the great sperm whale!’

  ‘Fight? For me?’ Sperm Whale Sally drew herself against the back of the huge chair and brought both her hands to her breasts. ‘There’ll be no fights for me, lads!’ She shook her head. ‘Not on your bloomin’ nelly!’

  ‘We must fight!’ Jorgensen repeated, banging his fist on the table.

  Sperm Whale Sally looked up in alarm at the anger in his voice. ‘Whatever for, capt’n? You both flies the True Blue most proud!’

  Captain Jorgensen was not used to explaining himself, and warily looked about the crowded room which had grown completely silent. He seemed conscious that what he was about to say might sound rather foolish. ‘We want to have. . .’ he paused and lightly tapped his heart with his forefinger. ‘We fight for. . .your titty!’

  ‘Huh?’ Sperm Whale Sally’s mouth fell open. A ripple of surprise came from the crowd and then silence as the onlookers waited for the response. She glanced down at her breasts, touching each with the tips of her fat fingers before looking up at Jorgensen. ‘One or both?’ she asked.

  There was a howl of laughter from the crowd, but the master of the Sturmvogel was not amused.

  ‘Starboard only!’

  Sperm Whale Sally looked down at her right breast, then at the left one and then back up at the captain. ‘So, what be wrong with me other titty?’ she enquired mischievously, enjoying the captain’s embarrassment and finding it difficult to restrain her laughter.

  ‘Portside belong to Jonathan! Sturmvogel wants boarding rights on the starboard titty!’ He turned and motioned to a jack tar who stood near to come forward. ‘We’ll fight the Jonathan injun and when Black Boss Cape Town beats him, Svensen here make a tattoo o’ the Sturmvogel on your starboard titty.’ He held out his hand to the jack tar and the man he’d called Svensen placed a small piece of paper in it. Captain Jorgen Jorgensen took three steps towards Sperm Whale Sally and handed her the paper. ‘A picture o’ the ship, most excellently drawn, Svensen will make a good artwork of it.’

  Sperm Whale Sally looked at the picture of the Danish whaling ship and thought the pretty drawing would look most handsome on her breast. But she did not indicate this to the captain. Instead she slowly undid her bodice and peeled back the material covering the vast expanse of her left breast, stopping just short of the rosy sphere around her nipple. Resting high upon it was a crude tattoo of the head of an Indian chief and the single word, ‘Tomahawk’.

  Those in the crowd standing close enough to see the tattoo gasped. The rumour that she favoured the huge Indian was confirmed. Sperm Whale Sally seemed somewhat surprised herself at the presence of the tattoo, as if she had quite forgotten it existed.

  And indeed she confirmed this, ‘Blimey! I quite forgot it be there!’ She covered the tattoo with her bodice and slowly did up the buttons. ‘That be there since I were a young ‘un, long before I come to Van Diemen’s Land!’ she said to Captain Jorgensen. ‘That be there,’ she began and then stopped suddenly, and looked up at Jorgen Jorgensen and added, ‘I don’t rightly remember. . .’ her voice trailing off.

  In fact she remembered it well. She’d been just fifteen years old, a young actress in a Drury Lane play named ‘Trooper of the King’, a story about the war against the American colonists. Cast as an Indian maiden, with no more than a walk-on part, she had become completely smitten with an actor playing the part of an Indian guide named Tomahawk. He had wined and dined her in the West End the night after the final performance. They caroused until the early hours and she had been too drunk to remember how or where she had been with him. All she recalled was waking up on a straw mattress in a cheap lodging house shortly before midday the following day to discover her erstwhile lover had departed and left his mark on her young breast in the form of a dark blue and very new tattoo.

  ‘It ‘as been there near all me life, capt’n! It ain’t got nothin’ to do with Mr Tomahawk the whaleman!’ Sperm Whale Sally protested.

  Jorgen Jorgensen shook his head, plainly not believing her. ‘You been smoked, Sperm Whale Sally, we know it be there for the Merryweather and the injun savage.’ He pointed at Sally’s left breast. ‘Portside be the Merryweather titty, now the starboard for Black Boss Cape Town and the Sturmvogel!’

  ‘Three cheers for Black Boss Cape Town!’ Pegleg shouted and the tavern resounded with three cheers for the giant black man who now stood with his arms folded, the front of his canvas shirt spread open to expose his immense barrel chest shiny with sweat.

  ‘Oi! Remember me?’ Sperm Whale Sally suddenly shouted. ‘Ain’t nobody gunna tattoo nothin’ on me tits, you hear!’

  There was a hushed silence and then someone shouted, ‘Here they comes! The Jonathans are coming!’

  All eyes turned to the doorway of the public house, though most could only see the crown of a top hat, because Captain Alexis ‘Blackmouth’ Perriman, who led the Americans, stood no more than five feet and three inches. Unlike Jorgen Jorgensen, who wore the clothes of a sailor coming ashore, a rough woollen suit of little style and most shabbily turned out, the captain of the Merryweather was dressed in a well-pressed top coat, clean linen, breeches, hose and well-shone buckled shoes. He was also clean shaven, but for a small tuft of dark beard stiffened with whale grease which grew at the point of his chin and was joined by a thin moustache which circled from either side of his top lip to meet the tuft. Within this hirsute oval stretched a small, thinly drawn mouth, downturned, so that it gave the impression of a vinegary disposition. He carried an ebony cane two-thirds as tall as himself with a whale bone carving of a sperm whale at its head, its eyes sparkling with what was claimed to be two blood red rubies.

  Despite his appearance, he was a skipper who drove his men hard, was not himself backward in derring-do, and had a record as a whaling captain which was second to none. Following him were the crew of the Merryweather, mostly Jonathans, though there were several of the Irish among them. The last to enter the tavern was Tomahawk, the giant Red Indian. His hair was parted at the centre and had been braided in a single plait which fell five inches beyond his shoulders. He was as tall and as big around the shoulders as Black Boss Cape Town but did not possess a similar girth. Instead he tapered down to a slim waist, so that he gave the appearance of being the younger, stronger man.

  Black Boss Cape Town carried three black stripes of a tribal cicatrisation down either cheek, and fitted into the stretched lobes of his ears were round discs the size of a silver dollar made of whale bone. In the centre of each was an inset of the outline of the sperm whale with its tail held high, carved of black horn.

  Tomahawk wore no ornamentation save for his facial skin, which was completely tattooed with swirls and dots. Of the two savages he had the more fearsome appearance. Moreover, he did not smile as he walked over to the table to stand beside the master of the Merryweather. Tomahawk, dressed as a jack tar, folded his arms about his chest and looked directly ahead, as though he were there for the purposes of his own sweet repose, quite alone with his eyes inwardly cast.

  Captain Perriman bowed his head slightly to Sperm Whale Sall
y and, turning, did the same to Captain Jorgen Jorgensen. ‘Greetings captain,’ he drawled.

  Sperm Whale Sally smiled. ‘Pleased to meetcha, capt’n!’

  Jorgen Jorgensen went to extend his hand towards the American, but thought better of it and withdrew, then he nodded his head and grunted. ‘Capt’n.’

  Captain Perriman smiled thinly. ‘Well, it be a fight then?’ It was not so much a question as a statement. ‘There should be rules,’ he announced.

  ‘Rules?’ Jorgen Jorgensen looked puzzled. ‘Whalemen do not fight to rules!’

  ‘Aye, well, both are valuable men, captain. I feel sure you would not want your man killed nor even maimed, he be a harpooner be he not?’

  Jorgensen pondered for a moment, and Sperm Whale Sally pushed herself up from her chair and pointed at the two captains. ‘You listen to me, you pair o’ right bastards!’

  They both looked at her in surprise, as though they had quite forgotten she existed. ‘What be it, woman?’ Captain Perriman asked in an offhand and irritated voice.

  ‘I already told you there ain’t gunna be no fight and no one’s gunna put a pitcher o’ his ship on me tits!’

  ‘But it is quite decided, Mistress Sally!’ Jorgen Jorgensen replied, bemused by her sudden recalcitrance.

  ‘Oh I see,’ Captain Perriman said, smiling knowingly. He winked at the Danish captain and took his purse from his jacket and from it took a ten dollar American bill. Then he walked over to Sperm Whale Sally and threw it on the table in front of her.

  Sperm Whale Sally looked at the bill. She might possibly have agreed to the tattoo for such a price but she wasn’t going to be patronised by the supercilious Jonathan. Her voice was angry and aggressive. ‘Now ‘ang on a mo, capt’n! It ain’t just the flamin’ tattoo! It’s me boys!’ She pointed to Black Boss Cape Town and then to Tomahawk. ‘They both o’ them true blues, they both done what’s needed, there ain’t nothin’ more they needs to do.’ In a sudden impatient gesture she pushed the ten dollar bill away. ‘You can stick yer Yankee money up yer tiny Jonathan arse!’