Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Then the big hairy bloke comes back in and Dunn fucks him from behind, right there beside me, the two of ’em grunting away while the blood runs down me head. It’s been a long time since I’ve took a worse beating.’

  Maggie sighs. ‘I must’ve eventually passed out because Johnny Sullivan finds me an hour later. He’s scared every bone in me body is broke. But it turns out that only most of me ribs are busted and two teeth at the back is missing. The rest is only bruises and blood, though I couldn’t walk for two weeks nor earn a penny for nigh on a month. It were Johnny what looked after me.’

  I wonder if Hawk’s heard any of this sorry tale. Maggie has kept her voice low and there’s a lot o’ noise from the crowd anyway. Sure enough, me twin’s still happily reading his book, as though he’s sitting in some quiet library and not among five thousand screamin’ punters. When Hawk carks it I’m gunna put a book in his hands and half a dozen more in his coffin, ‘case it’s a long journey to heaven!

  Well, the fight begins and it’s all bluff in the first round. The two heavies walks ‘round each other, sniffing and snorting, and Dunn lands a good blow to Thomas’s chest. This is returned a minute later, to the side of Dunn’s head. Then Dunn grabs Thomas and throws him to the ground. End of round one.

  Round two is more of the same but this time the Welshman catches Dunn a tremendous blow on the chin and the local boy goes down. He’s back up on his feet quick-smart. A knockdown means the round be over. It looks as though Maggie’s picked the right bloke.

  During round three, Dunn spends most of the time staying out o’ the way. Still he manages to hit the Welshman two good blows to the stomach, and Thomas grabs him and pulls him down.

  By round five, Dunn can see the Welshman is tiring so he steps up the pace. In return for three weak blows to the shoulders, he manages half a dozen of his own into his opponent’s bread basket. Suddenly Thomas clutches at his stomach and Dunn unleashes a big uppercut, what knocks the Welshman sprawling to the canvas. It’s clear to all that he won’t get up, and his ring man throws in the sponge.

  The fight’s all over in five rounds. It’s taken less than an hour, and the punters ain’t happy. They boos and hisses, the toffs included. Many has come a great way and they wants more for their money. The booing gets louder and many around us shout that the fight’s been fixed.

  I puts an arm around Maggie. ‘Bad luck, love, the good uns seldom win in this world.’

  At this minute, Ben Dunn comes to the ropes near us and signals to Fat Fred. They talk a moment together, and then Fat Fred nods. Signalling to his minders to lift him into the ring, he grabs a hailing funnel and calls for quiet.

  ‘Gentlemen and, er, ladies! Your attention, please!’ He keeps at it ‘til the crowd shuts up. ‘Mr Ben Dunn, heavyweight champion of the colony, is aware of yer disappointment at the duration of today’s bout and he agrees to fight anyone here for his purse won from Thomas Thomas of one hundred pounds. The contender puts only five pounds down as a sign o’ good will, winner takes all!’ Fat Fred pauses, looking over the heads of the crowd and then, as though he feels he should add somethin’ to his offer, shouts, ‘The winner gets the title as well!’

  The crowd bursts into laughter and more jeering. It’s a joke of course. No man unless he be drunk or a fool will pay five pounds to have his head knocked off.

  ‘Is there not an Irishman among you who’s game enough?’ Fat Fred taunts. I imagine there be plenty of Irishmen game enough but none big enough, them poor bastards being starved by the English for generations and this lot being the poorest physical specimens of them all.

  ‘Have we got five pounds, Tommo?’ Hawk asks suddenly.

  ‘Sure, it’s me stake for tonight’s poker game,’ I replies.

  ‘Give it here,’ he says, putting out his hand.

  ‘Hawk, are you mad? You’re not gunna…?’ I point to Ben Dunn what’s dancing about the ring.

  ‘Come on, Tommo,’ he says impatient. ‘Pass it over!’ I hands him the fiver and he walks up to the ring and holds it out to Fat Fred.

  It be the first and probably last time I sees Fat Fred smile, as he takes the money and holds it up. Over the hailing funnel he announces, ‘Gentlemen and punters, we have a contender!’

  There’s a roar from the crowd as Hawk lifts himself into the ring. Maggie is sobbing and laughing and jumping up and down and biting her little clenched fist. She digs in her handbag and holds up a pound note. ‘Who’ll give me ten to one odds the nigger wins!’ she shouts. The punters rush to the enclosure to take up Maggie’s odds.

  ‘Maggie, don’t be a fool!’ I yell as I climbs into the ring to be beside Hawk. Mr Sparrow follows me and we stands beside Hawk as he undoes the buttons on his blouse. He pulls it off and hands it to me, and the crowd sees him proper for the first time. He stands a foot above the heavyweight, and is six inches broader at the shoulder and six inches narrower at the waist. There ain’t an ounce o’ fat on his shiny black torso what’s all power and muscle.

  As for me, I’m plain terrified. He’s gunna get the hiding of his life from the Sydney bruiser what’s had more than fifty fights, with only four lost. Hawk knows nothing o’ fighting with his fists and his size’ll only make it easier for Dunn to hit him.

  The fight begins, with Fat Fred the referee. Just as I expected, the champion of the colony hits me twin at will. I scream at Hawk to grab Dunn and bring him down so that the round may end. But Hawk don’t hear me or don’t care to listen, and they fight for fifteen minutes, though he barely lands a blow.

  Dunn has a grin on his face as he smashes blow after blow into Hawk’s body and head. Soon Hawk’s left eye is closed and claret streams from his nose. But me brother won’t go down. Nearly half an hour has passed and the crowd, what admires his bravery, is beginnin’ to yell for the nigger.

  Dunn ain’t used to staying on his feet this long without a rest and he begins to slow somewhat. I reckon there’s less strength to his punches but still he’s making mincemeat out o’ Hawk.

  ‘Go down, take a rest!’ I shout at him. But Hawk stands defenceless in the ring and won’t move. I can’t bear it no more and I look for the sponge to throw it into the air. ‘Where’s the bloody sponge?’ I scream at Mr Sparrow. ‘We got to end it now!’

  Then I see Hawk starting to move around his opponent. It’s like he’s slowly come to life. Suddenly his arm shoots out and he hits Dunn on the nose. The champion’s face seems to cave in as he drops to his knees, a look of utmost surprise on his gob. It’s thirty-five minutes after the start of the fight and round one is ended. The mob howls with delight.

  Hawk comes to his corner. ‘We’re gunna stop it, ya hear!’ I yells at him. ‘He’s killin’ ya!’

  ‘Have you had enough, lad?’ Mr Sparrow asks.

  ‘Course he has!’ I scream. ‘We’re stopping now! Where’s the bloody sponge?’

  Hawk is panting and don’t say nothing. There’s blood in his mouth and a steady flow from his nose and I still can’t find the sponge. I takes up his shirt and, dipping it in the bucket o’ water, washes his face. Then I squeeze water into his mouth for him to rinse. He spits out the water into the bucket and his breathing starts t’ come back. Dunn has also tottered to his corner and sits there, glowering.

  ‘It’s all over, Hawk,’ I says, patting his huge shoulder. ‘You’ve fought good, mate, but ya can’t go back in there for more!’

  Hawk looks at me through his one eye. ‘I must, Tommo, or the mongrels win. Tell Maggie the next round is for her,’ he pants. ‘I cannot last beyond it.’ I shake me head at his stubbornness, for my body aches with his, and I know how bad he hurts. Sometimes, being Hawk’s twin be a most painful affair.

  The second round is called five minutes later and it’s as though Hawk has it all figured out in his head. Dunn is recovered but is very cautious. Hawk walks around him, always stayin’ on the western side of the ring—he won’t let Dunn out of the eastern half. Then I realise what he’s doing! Hawk’s making Dunn
face into the sun, what leaves him half-blind. He sets about him now. There ain’t much polish to Hawk’s punches, but they comes straight and hard. Each blow seems like it must break something inside the champion.

  Dunn hits Hawk several times, but the strength seems to have left him. Hawk just walks through the champion’s punches and keeps coming, sometimes hitting Dunn twice in as many seconds. The smack of his enormous fists into the flesh of the other fighter makes the ringside crowd wince and moan.

  Dunn tries to pull Hawk down but Hawk’s too strong and throws him off. Then, with the Sydney fighter slightly off-balance and his arms spread wide, Hawk hits him on the chin with a clean right-cross. It starts from way back and is so well timed and so hard that it lifts the heavyweight champion of the colony off his feet and, some will later swear, three feet into the air. Dunn’s out cold before he hits the deck. His corner can’t do nothin’ but throw in the sponge. The fight is over. Dunn won’t be rising to his feet again ‘til well after sunset.

  ‘Well now, my dear Ace O’ Spades!’ Mr Sparrow says to me, taking the missing sponge out o’ his coat pocket. ‘I think we’ve found ourselves a true champion!’

  Fat Fred is laughing, and I don’t reckon nobody in the history of the world has ever seen Fat Fred laugh. He grabs the hailing funnel and holds Hawk’s arm up. ‘Ladies and gentlemen, in a winner-takes-all contest, I give you Hawk Solomon, the new Heavyweight Champion of the Colony o’ New South Wales!’

  ‘And future champion of the whole bleedin’ world!’ Mr Sparrow shouts beside me.

  I rushes up to Hawk and hugs him about the waist. Then I sees Maggie climbing up into the ring, crying and laughing as she too rushes into me brother’s arms. ‘Hawk, I loves ya! I loves ya,’ she sobs.

  The crowd is yelling and trying to reach the ring to shake Hawk’s hand. The minders kick at them wildly. It’s all they can do to keep them at bay, for the mob is determined to carry Hawk off on its shoulders. The din is something terrible but I still hears what Hawk says to Maggie.

  ‘Maggie,’ he pants. ‘Please, Maggie, next time stay away from Johnny Sullivan’s Sparring Rooms!’

  Chapter Eighteen

  HAWK

  The Rocks

  May 1861

  Life has become most tedious for me of late. Everywhere I go I am followed by the Sydney lads who see me as their hero. In fact, when one recalls that prize-fighting is against the law, it seems strange that there is hardly a soul in Sydney who doesn’t know of my fight with Ben Dunn.

  Merchants lift their hats as I pass and many a toff bids me good day. I have become a curiosity, well nigh a fairground exhibit, and I find it exceedingly uncomfortable being the subject of confabulation in every tavern. Every man now claims to know me. Only today I heard that the cove who insulted my Maggie in the Hero of Waterloo, whom I threw across the room, now boasts of our fight. He is enjoying a low fame accordingly.

  Even Bell’s Life in Sydney has waxed lyrical about my native abilities as a bare-knuckle fighter. It predicts that, with training, I could be a future champion of the world. This is quite ridiculous, of course, and I am amazed that grown men talk everywhere of such a nonsensical possibility. I am big and clumsy and know nothing of the art of fisticuffs. Moreover, things do not sit well with myself and Mr Sparrow, who would arrange my life for me since that day at Parramatta.

  After the fight with Ben Dunn, Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred were most anxious that I should fight again and that they should handle my career in this regard. I was then, and still am, most anxious not to enter the ring ever again. I have been stared at almost all my life for my size and blackness. To further encourage folks’ attention is more than I can bear.

  Only amongst the Maori did I feel comfortable about my size. Here it is a wretched nuisance. The average male in the colony is about five foot and three inches tall. Ben Dunn the heavyweight is considered a near giant at five foot and eleven inches. If he is a giant, then I am a freak of nature.

  Fat Fred says I would make a fortune ten times over should I become a fighter. But I can see little sense in being knocked about for the sake of a few pounds. What’s more I feel fairly certain that a great deal of money would end up in Fat Fred and Mr Sparrow’s own pockets. As Ikey would say, ‘If you cannot turn a man with words and you agrees to fight him and should win, you will have lost anyhow. The hero dies young on some soon forgotten battlefield, but a good coward dies in bed with his own bugs to bite him.’ But Ikey’s continued influence in our lives, in the form of Mr Sparrow, has caused me much aggravation of late. Perhaps there was more to Ikey than his gems of wisdom which I now recall.

  I was bruised for a fortnight or more after fighting Dunn. I think he broke a number of my ribs, for I coughed up blood for several days after, and my sides and kidneys were particularly painful. My teeth seemed to rattle in my head and my nose was twice its usual size. My fists, which have never been cured in brine, were so sore that I could not hold a pen for four days. While my employer, Captain James Tucker, was most understanding, it is not my intention to let him down again. With Tucker & Co. I feel myself achieving something, whereas I fail to see that my striking down of another man, or he of me, offers any valuable lessons in life’s progress.

  ‘Oh,’ said Mr Sparrow when I told him that the purse did not merit the punishment I received from Ben Dunn and that I did not wish to enter the prize ring, ‘that was only because you lacked the skill to avoid such blows. We will teach you the art o’ fisticuffs so that you will take little punishment—at most a few rib-ticklers and pats to the jaw from the most belligerent pug. It’s Johnny Sullivan’s Sparring Rooms for you, lad. We’ll soon have you ready to take on your first customer!’

  Fat Fred nods most solemnly at this advice. I wonder how much punishment he himself has taken, other than the dozen meat pies and Cornish pasties I witnessed him eat after my fight with Ben Dunn. As for Johnny Sullivan, it was Maggie’s visit to his sparring rooms which caused the whole furore in the first place!

  Tommo, I know, is under some pressure from Mr Sparrow to persuade me to fight again but he will not speak on their behalf. I receive more than enough persuasion from Maggie, who wishes me to fight, thinking only of the excitement and believing me invincible, bless her bright eyes.

  ‘You will be a hero, and me on yer arm!’ she laughs happily.

  ‘More likely a lamb led to the slaughter and you ashamed of me,’ I reply.

  ‘No, no!’ she protests. ‘I has it on the best authority you will be the champion o’ the whole world!’

  It is useless to try to put reason into her magpie head. Maggie has become quite famous after the fight at Parramatta, as well making a large amount of cash from my win against Dunn. She collected nearly fifty pounds in total from those who honoured their bets. A great many made themselves scarce, melting into the jubilant crowd as soon as she climbed into the ring to be with me after the fight. Thank God I was fortunate enough to win. At ten to one odds to all takers, had I lost, Maggie would have been on her back ten hours a day for the next ten years paying off her debts.

  She has spent some of her winnings on a new outfit from Farmer’s in Pitt Street. A great deal more went on a spectacular bonnet from Mr Israel Myer’s emporium in George Street. She has had this hat fitted with a newly stuffed magpie, which sits resplendent amongst ribbons, bows and artificial flowers of every colour of the rainbow. But much the better part of her winnings was spent on me. She paid to have a solid eighteen carat-gold ring made for me, of the signet style. On the face is a magpie and inside is inscribed Maggie Pye loves Hawk Solomon, Champion of the World. It is the most beautiful gift I have ever received and I shall cherish it all the days of my life.

  Maggie, who can scarcely read or write, does not see why I should wish to work eight hours a day at Tucker & Co. when I could earn fifty times my weekly wage with one fight. Of course she doesn’t know about Mary and the brewery and how it is in my best interest to learn all I can of the liquor business before we return
to Hobart Town. But although I haven’t told her of my plans, I find myself hoping she may even accompany Tommo and me.

  Meanwhile, Maggie weeps in my arms and begs me to take up prize-fighting. I’m afraid it will come between us if I cannot resolve the matter soon. Now, seven weeks after the fight, she plain refuses to make love to me and bursts into copious tears.

  We have fed the brats their Sunday roast and have gone up to her rooms where it is our custom, after taking a meal downstairs, to make love. But she pushes me away when I would take her in my arms.

  ‘No!’ she says, her mouth turned down.

  I have learned something of women and so ask her gently if it is her time of the month.

  ‘No!’ she says again, and a tear runs down her pretty cheek.

  ‘Maggie, what is it? What have I done?’

  ‘The girls mock me!’ she wails.

  ‘About me?’

  She nods, unable to speak.

  ‘Why? Because I’m big? A nigger? What is it, Maggie?’

  ‘They say you’re a coward!’ Maggie wails. She flings herself onto the bed and begins to howl in earnest.

  ‘A coward? How so?’ I ask.

  Maggie’s eyes glisten with tears and she catches a sob in her throat. ‘Cause you won’t fight!’ Then she buries her face in her arms and sobs fit to break a man’s heart.

  I sit down on the side of the bed and put my hand on her shoulder, but she shakes it off. ‘Maggie, beating another man senseless won’t make a man a hero. You should know that!’

  Maggie sniffs. ‘It be ‘umiliating. The girls say you’re a big black cock with a chicken’s heart! Oh, oh, oh!’ she cries, burying her head in a red satin cushion.

  ‘A big black cock with a chicken’s heart, eh?’ I laugh. ‘That is amusing. Maggie! Maggie! Come along sweetheart, you know better than that! It’s obvious, isn’t it? Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred have put this about. They’ve put all the tarts up to it, trying to get me to fight!’