Potato Factory

by Bryce Courtenay

  Ikey, shaking his head, rose from the table. ‘I’ll not be staying,’ he said quietly, then he looked up at his son. ‘I been a villain in my day. But I didn’t do no harm what led to bloodshed, and them I stole from could always afford a little loss. I ain’t saying what I done was right, but I’ve served my punishment and what’s in that safe in England I’ve earned. Not one-eighth, but half and much more!’ Ikey paused. ‘But half will do, the other half be your mother’s and she can share it any way she likes. But you didn’t earn it, and let me tell you something for nothing, my boy! As for my name, the black Solomon and his brother make me proud of it for the first time in my life!’

  David Solomon now shook with anger. ‘What does ya mean, I hasn’t earned it? You, ya bastard, you betrayed our mother so she were sent ‘ere and Ann, Sarah, Mark and me, we were put in the bloody orphanage! We earned that money orright! Every fuckin’ penny, ya miserable sod!’ He stepped up to Ikey and tapped him on the chest. ‘Two days, or ya gets the bloody boy what you’re so fuckin’ proud o’ givin’ yer name sent to Mary Abacus bit by fuckin’ bit, and the white brat follows soon after!’ David stepped back, the whites of his eyes showing, his hands now balled into a fist. He was breathing heavily and Ikey felt he was about to strike him, but for once he was not afraid.

  Ikey shook his head. ‘This was your mother’s idea, wasn’t it? It’s not just the money, it be her revenge on Mary Abacus too, ain’t that it?’

  ‘She has a good right to it!’ David said, dropping his hands to his side. ‘That bitch tried to steal her husband and the affection o’ her children!’ He cleared his throat. ‘You got two days, Ikey Solomon.’ He picked the tiny parcel up and handed it to Ikey. ‘Show this to your whore!’ he shouted.

  On the ferry home Ikey’s mind was a whirl. David was right, he would not go to the authorities. With his record of family quarrels and vendettas they would never believe him and, besides, two urchins going missing was an everyday occurrence and hardly worth investigating. The mutilation he knew they would take more seriously, but it looked typically like the work of some desperate escaped convict or wild man, or even a sealer or kangaroo shooter who had heard about the reward. Moreover, it was a black hand. While they would not say so, Ikey knew they would attach much less importance to it than if it were white.

  Having Hawk’s finger in one of the pockets of his coat saddened Ikey most terribly. He could see Hawk’s hands dancing in the air as he worked the silent language, his little black fingers so elegant and expressive. The thought that Hawk’s dancing hands might soon be bloody stumps was almost more than he could bear. Yet Ikey could not bring himself to tell Mary of the money in the Whitechapel safe. He knew he must attempt to save the lives of Tommo and Hawk, but he was also convinced he would never see a penny of the money it had taken him a lifetime to earn if he gave Hannah his half of the combination. Ikey tried to convince himself that Mary would recover from the loss of her children. Even if she should never talk to him again, he was comfortable enough and sufficiently independent. ‘Life goes on,’ he repeated to himself several times. ‘They were not really her children,’ he told himself, though he knew Mary loved Tommo and Hawk as well as if they had been born her own. He, too, was greatly fond of the boys, but Ikey’s entire life had been a matter of his own survival and the first rule was not to mourn the past but to move on. He refused, out of a lifetime of habit, to agonise over the matter. Although he might never bring himself to say so, Ikey knew himself to love Mary, but he saw no purpose in telling her about the safe in Whitechapel. He would need to invent something else to explain the package he carried. By the time the ferry had arrived back in Hobart Town, Ikey had cobbled together quite a different story.

  The ferry had caught the outgoing tide on the lower reaches of the Derwent River and the trip back had taken slightly over two hours. It was just after half past six in the evening when Mary, helping Jessamy serve customers, saw Ikey arrive and motioned urgently for her to meet him at the rear of the mill.

  She was already in the kitchen waiting, wiping her hands on her apron, when Ikey entered the doorway. It had been a month and two days since Tommo and Hawk disappeared. Mary ate almost nothing and was silent most of the time, talking only when she was required to do so and working until late into the night. The new Tomahawk beer had thankfully kept them all very busy, or they might not have been able to bear the thought of Mary’s sorrow.

  ‘What is it, Ikey?’

  Ikey looked at Mary. ‘Sit down, my dear.’

  Mary saw the concern on his face. ‘What is it?’ she asked again and then pulled out a chair and sat down. ‘It’s bad, isn’t it?’

  Ikey nodded and drew himself up a chair, then told Mary the story of his visit to New Norfolk.

  ‘So there it is, my dear, you get the boys back by signing the deeds to the Potato Factory over to David Solomon.’

  Mary remained silent for almost a minute, then she looked up at Ikey, a terrible weariness showing in her beautiful green eyes. She nodded slowly and Ikey knew she would give up anything for her two boys. ‘He were never a good lad, that David. Bright but of a mean spirit,’ Mary said quietly, then she was silent again before adding a small voice, ‘Show me.’

  Ikey recoiled, his head jerking back. ‘No, my dear, it will distress you!’

  Mary looked up at him, her expression suddenly fierce. ‘Show me! I want to see it for meself!’

  Ikey removed the small parcel from the interior of his coat and placed it on the table in front of her. Mary’s hands trembled as she picked at the bow and then removed the brown paper wrapping. Silent tears ran down her cheeks as she unfolded the grubby, white cloth so that she could barely see the finger. She started to weep, then to wail, choking at the same time, her head averted from the small dark object.

  Ikey quickly rose from his chair to stand behind her and place his hands on her shoulders. ‘Oh dear, oh dear! Oh my! Oh dear!’ he babbled. He could think of nothing to say to comfort Mary.

  After a while Mary reached into the pocket of her apron for a piece of rag, and wiped her eyes and blew her nose. Ikey reached over her to take up the parcel, but she saw his action and pushed his hand away. ‘Leave it!’ she commanded.

  ‘But, my dear. . .’

  Ikey stopped mid-sentence, for there was a surprised gasp from Mary and then she began to laugh, though in a hysterical manner, pointing at the finger.

  ‘What is it, my dear?’ Ikey cried, alarmed.

  But Mary’s hysterical laughter continued and finally Ikey slapped her hard. She stopped and looked at him wild-eyed. ‘It’s not Hawk’s finger!’ she cried, then wept again.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Ikey cried out. He repeated himself several times, ‘What do you mean? What do you mean?’ before Mary stopped crying. Now she took deep gulps of air to calm herself.

  ‘Whatever can you mean?’ Ikey repeated urgently.

  ‘It be the right forefinger,’ she said, pointing to the object before her. ‘Hawk had a long scar down that finger where I cut and sucked it when he had the snake bite. A long, clean scar, not to be missed!’

  Ikey remembered the incident well. ‘Are you sure it be the right and not the left?’ he said.

  ‘Left were once broken in a fight, it mended a wee bit crooked,’ Mary said emphatically. She glanced at the finger on the table and gave a small shudder. ‘Besides, that finger be too small, much too small, that be the finger of an Aboriginal child!’

  ‘You mean this be a scam?’ Ikey cried in amazement. ‘They’s seen the beer label and cooked it all up!’ Ikey whistled to himself. ‘Jesus, I never thought that whore Hannah had that much imagination!’

  Mary looked at Ikey and then said fiercely, ‘That finger still come from a little brat! That be wicked and cruel enough beyond imagining.’ She paused and pointed at Ikey. ‘They could have taken the Potato Factory, they could have had the bloody lot, if only it would o’ brought back me boys!’ She burst into tears again and then shouted, ‘Ikey, I s
wear, I dunno how and I dunno where, but Hannah’s going to pay for this!’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  It was four months after his visit to New Norfolk when Ikey, in the course of his nightly peregrinations, sensed he was being followed. He changed direction, cutting down the lane past New Market and quickening his pace, thinking to slip into the Hope & Anchor, the tavern at the end of the lane facing onto the safety of Macquarie Street. But then he heard his name called softly in a voice he was never likely to forget.

  ‘You good pella, Ikey!’

  ‘Billygonequeer?’ Ikey called back in surprise.

  ‘No, no, William Lanney!’ Billygonequeer said urgently as he came out of the darkness not five feet from where Ikey stood.

  Ikey listened to the voice from the shadows, amazed that Billygonequeer could have been so close without his hearing him. The two men embraced and as Ikey’s hands clasped around Billy’s shoulders, he felt the raised scar tissue across his back through the coarse canvas shirt.

  ‘Blimey, I thought you be dead!’ Ikey exclaimed, beaming at Billygonequeer’s dark face. ‘What’s happened to you then, my dear?’

  Billygonequeer, who now spoke quite passable English, explained to Ikey that under the name William Lanney he had become a whaleman for Captain Kelly on one of the local whaling ships which worked the bays and channels during the winter season.

  ‘Ikey, listen,’ Billygonequeer said finally. ‘I come about the black kid on the beer bottle.’

  Ikey’s heart missed a beat. ‘What’s you know about that, Billygonequeer?’

  ‘William Lanney! You gimme the name y’self!’ Billygonequeer cried urgently. ‘I still on the lam, man!’

  Ikey listened carefully as Billygonequeer told him what he knew. He had been down south at the whaling station at Recherche Bay where they had been boiling down the catch. They had thereafter sailed up the D’Entrecasteaux Channel, but opposite Huon Island had hit a squall and done some damage to the mizzen mast and so had taken shelter in the Huon River. The wind being fair, they had sailed upriver to Port Huon, and put ashore for some minor repairs. Here, Billy had gone for a walk along the riverbank some way from the settlement when, to his surprise, he had met seven Aboriginals, five of them half castes and two of full blood.

  The full bloods explained they came from the upper reaches of the Kermandie River to the south-west, which stretched to the high mountain. They talked for some time and then told him that several days previously they had been out hunting rat kangaroo when they saw a wild man who rode a horse, behind which he caused a black boy to run. Curious, they had crept closer. The boy was tied about the neck with a rope which was attached to the saddle. The wild man passed close to where they hid and they could see that the boy was not an Aboriginal, but quite different in appearance to their own people. Billygonequeer concluded by saying that, nearly three weeks later, he had heard some of the whalemen talking about the fifty pounds reward posted on the beer bottles and he’d asked one of them to read it aloud. Hearing Ikey’s name, he had decided to tell him what he knew. ‘You good pella, Ikey!’ he said, laughing at himself, for he now spoke much better English.

  ‘What sort of country be it, these mountains?’ Ikey asked at last.

  Billygonequeer shook his head. ‘You can’t go there, boss!’ he protested vehemently. ‘It black fella place, wild men convict and some timber getter, very bad country.’

  ‘Can you go with troopers?’

  Billygonequeer sniffed. ‘Troopers can’t go this place, wild men kill!’

  ‘Will I see you again?’ Ikey asked.

  ‘Hobart Town very dangerous for me,’ Billygonequeer said. ‘Three day,’ he pointed to the ground, ‘same time, I see you here.’

  At breakfast the following morning Ikey told Mary what had transpired.

  ‘It’s Hawk!’ Mary cried. ‘Oh, Ikey, I know it’s him!’ ‘There were no mention by the blacks of a sighting of Tommo, so it may not be, my dear,’ Ikey cautioned. ‘Besides it be wild country, only escaped convicts and timber getters, the roughest and most dangerous o’ men, all outside the law and with a price on their ‘eads. You won’t be able to pay any cove sufficient so he be mad enough to go into those mountains!’

  Mary looked at Ikey. ‘I knows mountains, I been all over Mount Wellington. I knows the way o’ the bush, I’ll go meself!’

  Ikey was too shocked at first to react, but finally regained his voice. ‘You’re mad, Mary Abacus, this be wild country such as you’ve never seen. No trooper will venture there for fear o’ death. There be no roads, not even paths, it be virgin timber, grown so close and tall it be dark in daylight!’

  ‘And how does you know all this?’ Mary said sullenly.

  ‘You forget, my dear, I was in a road gang. I knows the way of timber, only this be much worse - no man what’s not bred to the mountains can live there. Even the timber getters be o’ the worst sort, Irish and most o’ them villains or in concert with the wild men. If a woman should venture there, even if she should not perish soon from the climate and hardship she must endure, she would soon enough be used in such a way that she would die of other causes, if you knows what I mean!’

  ‘I knows what you mean, Ikey Solomon,’ Mary said grimly. ‘But no wild man’s going to treat my boy like an animal!’

  In Mary’s eyes was the look Ikey had come to know well, and he realised nothing would dissuade her. He inwardly cursed himself for telling her about the sighting. After all, there was no way of knowing if it was Hawk, or even if the natives had told the truth.

  ‘Perhaps we could muster some troopers at South-port? You could talk to Mr Emmett?’

  ‘I got more chance on my own, Ikey. A woman on her own be the best bait to hook a wild man!’

  ‘Shit no! No, Mary, I cannot have you do this!’ Ikey cried. He’d presumed, if not troopers, that Mary would take some sort of armed escort on such a perilous journey.

  ‘They’ve taken my boy and turned him into an animal and tied a rope around his neck! I tell you, I’d sooner die than not go after the bastard what done that to Hawk!’

  ‘You will die, Mary!’ Ikey said softly.

  ‘Then I die trying, that’s all!’ Mary said angrily. ‘It be better than living ashamed!’

  ‘I’ll come with you!’ Ikey said, suddenly making up his mind.

  Mary, astonished, looked at Ikey and smiled, then her eyes filled with tears. ‘If you were to come we would most surely guarantee to perish,’ she said tenderly.’But I thanks you, Ikey Solomon, from the bottom o’ me heart!’

  Ikey had to admit to himself that he was secretly delighted with this reply, for he already regretted his decision.

  ‘You will need to make sure your affairs are all in order, my dear,’ he said sadly.

  The next day Mary’s enquiries revealed that, in three days, a small trading ketch, the Isle of Erin, would be leaving on the morning tide for Port Huon, and then on to the tiny new hamlet of Franklin. Mary booked passage, even though it was a cargo boat, and there were no cabins except the one which belonged to the captain. She was advised to bring her own oilskins as she would have to remain on deck throughout the two-day journey, the ship having to lay up at night against the sudden squalls which so often blew up along the D’Entrecasteaux Channel.

  Ikey urged her to wait until he had spoken to Billygonequeer again, but there was no other boat for four days and Mary would not delay a moment longer. She knew that if news of her impending journey leaked out she would be forbidden by the authorities to travel into such wild country, so she settled her affairs and Ikey was sworn to secrecy. Mary told Jessamy Hawkins and the men at the Potato Factory at both the Old Mill and at Strickland Falls that she was going to do some trading with the small settlements along the Huon River. She instructed that they send a dray loaded with six dozen cases of Tomahawk and Temperance beer, and four fifty-gallon barrels of her strongest dark ale, to the Old Wharf where the Isle of Erin was docked.

  On the third morning, ju
st before sunrise, Mary left Hobart Town not sure that she would ever return. She looked up at the great mountain which had swallowed her two sons and said a quiet farewell, for she was now convinced that her mountain had not murdered Hawk and Tommo. She sat on the deck of the Isle of Erin on a case of Tomahawk beer, her umbrella spread open and her hand clasping the Waterloo medal. ‘Bring me luck, and send the green parakeets to find my sons for me,’ she begged the mountain. The summit of Mount Wellington was covered in cloud and a light drizzle fell. Though it was late spring, and the almond blossoms already out, there was mist on the river as the barque lofted sail and slipped into the ebb of the outgoing tide.

  The voyage proved slow though uneventful. By the time they reached the channel the day had turned to bright sunshine and the small, clumsy and overloaded ketch seemed to make unnecessarily heavy work of a light breeze. At nightfall, they hove onto the leeward side of Huon Island under a near full moon.

  Mary slept fitfully, for the night was cold. She had brought two blankets, one for herself and one for Hawk, or one for each of her children, as she hoped she’d find them both. Mary also wore her warm coat, this being the most she thought she could carry on her back when she set out on her journey into the mountains. The blankets and a supply of hard tack biscuit and dried meat, matches, sugar and tea made up the remainder of her burden, except for the small axe she’d carried up the mountain on the night Hawk and Tommo disappeared. It was heavy, but she knew she would need to take it along. The blankets she would roll up and place across the top of a canvas bag she had constructed, which was not unlike a child’s school satchel, though somewhat bigger. Mary also carried fifty pounds in notes which were hidden in the brass cylinder of her prisoner’s purse and deposited up her cunny. In her handbag she carried sufficient money for any expenses she might incur and as well a pearl-handled, pepperbox pistol.