Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  We both pause. ‘But how did Mary rescue you?’ Tommo urges.

  ‘Well, we’re climbing up a mountain one day—it’s early morning and very cold. I was never warm in all that time, not once. I don’t know where we’re going, but the wild man keeps stopping and looking up at the track, a narrow path which seems to me all stones. He’s sniffing, testing the air, his tongue darting out like he’s tasting it. He sucks his finger and holds it in the air above his head, testing the wind. Then up we go, climbing the mountain. Suddenly he stops and turns his horse and we descend into a small box canyon.

  ‘And then I see Mary. She is sitting up holding a blanket to her neck, and I realise that she has seen the monster and is filled with terror. Next she spies me, standing behind the horse with the rope around my neck.

  ‘"Hawk!”she screams.

  ‘But I’ve got no voice and cannot answer her. I just stand trembling in the bitter, cold morning. I raise my hands to confirm it is me, to tell her that I’ve heard her. I speak to her in the sign language that Ikey’s taught us, and which Mary knows also.

  "Mama!” I say.

  ‘"Hawk! Mama’s come!” she screams. Then she looks up at the monster. “He’s my boy, my precious boy, give me him!”

  ‘The monster jerks at the rope so that I am thrown to my knees. Loosening the rope from the saddle, he drags me to a rock and ties me to it. And then he drives his first into my face and I fall to the ground.

  ‘Mama is still yelling at him, “You bastard! You fucking bastard!”

  ‘I look up in my daze to see the monster, his tongue darting in and out and licking at his snot, ties his horse to another boulder and walks towards Mama. He’s got her trapped, blocking her escape. He throws her to the ground and leaps on top of her, pulling his breeches down. He’s grunting and puffing and tearing at her clothes and skirt, one hand around her throat. Then I hear the shot, and three more, and the wild man slumps down over Mama, vomiting and shitting himself. She’s shot him.

  ‘Mary is covered in guts, shit, blood and vomit but she pushes him aside, drops her pistol and comes running towards me, arms outstretched. She grabs me and howls like some primitive creature. Then she weeps and weeps, and I with her.’

  I am exhausted at this telling and Tommo is once again reduced to sobs. ‘Tommo,’ I say, clasping my hand to his shoulder, ‘Mama found me, but she never gave up looking for you. Not one day passed that she didn’t try to find you! She offered a king’s ransom if anyone should report your whereabouts. She put your likeness and description on the back label of every bottle of Tomahawk beer she sold. She questioned me for years about what happened and where you might be—all the time you were away.

  ‘"Think, Hawk!” She’d shake me by the shoulders. “Think, darling! The man what took Tommo, what did he look like? Can you remember anything, darling, the smallest thing?” But of course I couldn’t. Not then.’

  I grip Tommo’s shoulder hard. ‘It’s all so clear now. I can see him, the man with a scar across his eyebrow. The scar went deep into his hairline, as if it had been done with an axe. Black eyes, dead like lumps of coal, another scar across his mouth, intersecting his bottom lip. That’s who took you.’

  ‘It weren’t Slit,’ Tommo mutters, and stares into the distance for a long time. ‘So why must we get Ikey out of our souls?’ he asks at last.

  ‘Don’t you see? Ikey’s greed is at the root of all this misery. It wasn’t his fault—he wasn’t evil. But life was hard and that’s how he survived. He had to be greedy just to live. That greed is still with us, it haunts us, Tommo!’

  ‘But we’re of Ikey’s making!’ Tommo says, wonderingly. ‘He taught us everything, all we needed to know to survive.’

  ‘We’re of Mary’s making too, Tommo. It was Mary who brought us up, who gave us decency and love.’

  ‘But I loved Ikey,’ Tommo says sadly, as if I’m taking away one of his few pleasant memories. ‘Without him in me mind I couldn’t have survived—not in the wilderness nor out of it, for that matter.’

  ‘Me neither! There was much good in Ikey, Tommo! But we must also put his greed behind us! Ikey’s greed lives on in Mr Sparrow, in the opium pipe he feeds you. It’s going to kill you, Tommo!’

  Tommo looks down, examining his nails. ‘So now you wants to fight the Lightning Bolt, what’ll beat you to a pulp, so’s you can defeat Mr Sparrow and rescue yours truly. Is that it?’ He speaks quietly, but is plainly angry.

  I nod, knowing that I must step carefully here. But I can control my own anger no longer. ‘He has turned you into his slave! He can’t be allowed to do that. The mongrels can’t keep on winning. Somebody must stop them!’

  ‘Ho! That’s my saying, Hawk, and it ain’t got me nowhere. You can’t win, Hawk. You can’t win against the Irishman, and you got even less chance against Mr Sparrow!’

  ‘Tommo, listen to me. I loved Ikey too but we must be rid of this curse once and for all.’

  ‘How? By getting thrashed by an Irishman? That’s precisely what Mr Sparrow wants, to see you killed and him get rich at your expense.’

  ‘Tommo, you’ve got to think up a way I can win the fight! I must win. For all our sakes.’

  I don’t tell my brother the last reason behind my determination to take on Mr Sparrow and succeed. I have received another letter from Mary, in which she tells me all that has happened. The more I think of it, the more I know the time has come. If we are to make lives of our own, if my dream of a shop is to come to pass, Tommo and I must first make our peace with Mary. The time has come for Tommo, Maggie and me to prepare to go home.

  The Potato Factory Brewery

  ‘The Cascades’

  Hobart Town

  Tasmania

  May 8 1861

  My dearest Hawk and Tommo,

  I count each day you are away as though it be a year. Every morning when I rise, I go out into the yard and look up at the mountain. I have it perfect timed so I see a flock of green rosellas as they fly each day from the mountain across the Derwent River to some place too far for the eye to follow. How they screech and carry on as they pass overhead!

  These emerald green parakeets have always been the birds of my good fortune. The very first morning I arrived in Van Diemen’s Land, a flock flew over the ship’s high mast and I knew then that I would survive. I clasped my Waterloo medal and swore that I would begin a new life and that the green birds would be my talisman.

  This morning I waited for them to fly over, preparing to call out, ‘Bring back my boys!’ like I always do. They came, just as they do every day, but this time to my astonishment, they wheeled and came to rest in my garden—some on the peach tree what’s in blossom and some on the washing line—screeching their hearts out.

  ‘It’s a sign!’ I yell. ‘A sign!’ I clap my hands and with that sound they’s gone, up and away, taking the same route as always.

  This be the first time they’ve wheeled and stopped and I found myself crying, though for joy or sorrow I cannot say. Is it a warning? I fear for my boys—that one of you might be harmed. Or should I fear for myself?

  David and Hannah have bought up the entire hops crop on the island this year—and our own planting has failed. There is word that David will start his own brewery soon and he vows to take away my business. Buying hops from the mainland makes my Tomahawk Pilsener and my Temperance Ale most expensive to brew and if I pass the cost on to my customers I fear it may lose me many a working man’s custom.

  Still, I shall manage, though I feel I haven’t the heart if my boys don’t soon return. Were you and Tommo here, we could buy land further up the Huon Valley where hop-growing is more reliable. I have also thought we might open a brewery in Melbourne or Ballarat to supply the diggings, and that you and Tommo could undertake this task in a year or two after you are once again acquainted with what is required.

  David Solomon meanwhile spreads vicious rumours, ably aided by Hannah, that I have long been Mr Emmett’s mistress and so have gained favours
and concessions from the government. ‘How else,’ he asks, ‘can a woman prosper over a man in the brewing business?’

  This has caused me the greatest distress for, excepting my love for my two boys, I treasure Mr Emmett’s friendship above all else. He has retired from the government and so David is now able to talk openly without fear of reprisal. There are plenty here too who are willing to believe him, even though I am innocent.

  To make matters worse, Mrs Emmett has died recently and already there are those who say it was brought about by grief at the knowledge of our alleged association. I cannot protest, for to do so would give credence to this wicked accusation. Nor can I go to my dear friend and offer him comfort, for fear that it will be seen to confirm their gossip. Though I don’t give a fig for their good opinion, I would not wish to cause Mr Emmett the least embarrassment.

  I admit I did not care for Mrs Emmett one little bit. I find it hard to credit that a man so noble of spirit could have loved a woman so determined to look down her long and imperious nose at those she thought inferior, such as myself.

  I hope and pray that dear Mr Emmett will forgive my not attending the funeral service but I am grown too old to turn hypocrite now. I did send flowers out of the respect I hold for him. I took to the mountain and picked wildflowers and made a wreath twined with the honeysuckle that grows there. I’ll venture it was the only one of its kind among the pompous floral tributes on her grave.

  My dearest boys, I think of you a hundred times each day and my heart aches with longing for your return. How I wish to hold you each by the hand as when you were young and tell you how your mama loves you.

  Please write to me soon, I long for news that you are well.

  Your loving mama,

  Mary Abacus.

  Chapter Nineteen

  TOMMO

  The Rocks

  May 1861

  When Hawk tells me he’s going to fight the Irish champion, I’m most terrible worried. Hawk don’t have the nature of a true fighter—he’s a man of peace. If he takes on the Lightning Bolt, he won’t be fighting the true object of his anger. In his mind, he’ll be entering the twenty-four-foot ring against Mr Sparrow, and that ain’t enough.

  Hawk knows this himself. And yet he says I got t’ help him win. He wants me to come up with a plan what will undo Mr Sparrow and his sidekick, Fat Fred. Somehow we also has to raise the money for the stakes—two hundred and fifty pounds in a prize of five hundred pounds, winner takes all—so that we won’t have to forfeit any of what we makes to Mr Sparrow or his gang.

  So far me plan is this. I’m gunna go to Mr Sparrow and tell him I have persuaded my brother to fight the Irishman. This will keep me in his good books as I depends on him for me living at cards and o’ course for the favours of Mr Tang Wing Hung. If only it were possible to play in a Sydney card game what the bastard don’t control, then I’d soon enough have the stakes for Hawk’s fight with some to spare!

  But how am I to tell Mr Sparrow that Hawk don’t require Fat Fred as a manager and trainer, nor Johnny Sullivan’s Sparring Rooms for training? It’s gunna be awkward enough explaining that Hawk plans to raise the stake money himself, without me master’s friendly involvement. I’ll have to tell him flat that Hawk ain’t yet buried the hatchet over Mr Sparrow demanding sixty per cent of his prize money from the Ben Dunn fight. Mr Sparrow will be miffed but, in the end, he’ll accept Hawk’s terms, knowing that me twin has little chance o’ winning. Besides, the true profit for Mr Sparrow is in the betting ring, what he controls. And such a deal will make him a cleanskin. He may now promote the fight and fix the betting ring to his advantage. When Hawk, after much huffing and puffing, loses to the Irishman, Mr Sparrow can’t be accused of arranging the outcome.

  Maybe I’ll say that the stakes for Hawk’s side of the prize is being raised in secret by Captain James Tucker—Hawk’s employer, what’s known to be a sporting gent with the horses. This ain’t something Mr Sparrow could go sniffing out the truth about, as it ain’t proper for a gentleman of Captain Tucker’s standing and a member of the Union Club to have an interest in an illegal fist fight.

  I’m also gunna have to tell Mr Sparrow that I won’t be keeping him advised of Hawk’s progress. What worries me is that he’ll withdraw me supplies of the Angel’s Kiss. But I’ll tell him that Hawk won’t fight if he does this, and I reckon he’ll give in to his own greed. There’s big money to be made from this fight and nobody knows it better than Sparrer Fart.

  That’s as much as I’ve got planned at present and there’s two questions still facin’ me. How does we raise the stake? And how can I make Hawk a certain winner? What Mr Sparrow wants above all else is that Hawk gets beaten near to death. He reckons he’s been cheated and humiliated by me twin. He wants his revenge, and he wants it at a profit. I ain’t even begun to come up with a certain double-sting.

  I think about this problem for several days on end but naught comes to mind. Me head wound, the pain of which never quite leaves me ‘cept with opium, starts hurting something awful. And then the answer hits me like a flamin’ bolt out o’ the blue!

  Mary! Our own mama!

  Hawk has told me of Ikey’s stolen fortune what’s now in Mary’s possession. If I could do a deal with Mary and get me hands on some of that money, I could offer the Irishman twice his winnings to lose the fight. For a sum of a thousand pounds, he’d surely do it. We’d set up what looks like a grand fight to the punters—a fight in which both men shows good scientific points and there’s much ballyhoo in the ring—an excellent circus all ‘round. We’d lodge the money in a trust account in England to be paid to the Irishman in the event of a deal well done. And if I was to offer him some cash up front, so that he could bet against himself at good odds, he’d be even further tempted. He’ll take our bribe, let Hawk win, and go home happy enough besides!

  The Bolt ain’t a young man and he’s well past his prime, though he’d still thrash our Hawk—no matter how strong me brother be. And he wants that prize purse bad. Bell’s Life in Sydney reckons the Bolt’s come to the colonies to get his snout into the money trough one last time. The Irishman talks o’ retiring from the game and opening a pub in Galway, inviting all from the colonies to visit him. This be the ambition of just about every prize fighter what ever lived!

  I’ve already seen the Bolt twice at the card table in Chinatown and has come to know a little about him. He’s a fair enough player, game enough to win the occasional pot. He be just the sort to lose in the company of a player such as yours truly—and stupid enough to believe his loss has come about through bad luck on the night. On both nights Mr Sparrow told me to let him win enough to pay his grog bill and a bit more. I’ve also heard him boast that he ain’t once had to pay for the pleasures of the sweet colonial lassies what visit his rooms above Mr Hulle’s Shipman’s Hotel at Brickfield Hill. Maggie says she’d bet London to a brick these girls works for Mr Sparrow, for the Bolt ain’t no charmer to get it for free. What this means is that Mr Sparrow’s softening him up. He plans to own all or a good part of all the Irish fister before he takes on me brother.

  The Bolt’s well-loved by the Tipperary men and they follows him wherever he goes. On Saturdays, the Irish navvies come in their hordes to drink all day in the Shipman’s Hotel—just to catch a glimpse of the champion o’ the Emerald Isle and conqueror o’ the English bulldog. Some has even painted a large banner sporting a crude likeness of the Bolt standing with one foot upon the stomach of a bulldog, lying on its back with its legs in the air. The dog’s tongue, what has the stripes of the Union Jack painted upon it, lolls out o’ the corner of its mouth. Blood spouts like a fountain from its nostrils and falls into a glass held waist high by the champion, who’s smacking his lips. This banner they raise on poles and carry about as proud as you like, with three men to the front, one beating a drum and the other two playing the cornet and fife, and any number of Irishmen marching behind.

  If anyone mocks the Bolt, he’s at once challenged to a fight by ea
ch and every Tipperary man within hearing. The Shipman’s Hotel has become a dangerous place because of these shenanigans. The townfolks keeps well away from the drunken men what mills about the station at Strawberry Hills, waiting for the late Sunday night train home to Parramatta Town.

  Imagine the hullaballoo when we declares Hawk’s fight with the Irish champion! ‘Hawk, the Black Jew, fights the blessed son of Erin who was baptised in the holy waters of the Shannon River.’ What a banner that will be!

  Now that I’ve worked out the sting I must get Maggie Pye’s help to put it in place. Of course, it ain’t worth a pinch o’ shit ‘less I get Mary’s money to bribe the Irishman with. Without saying nothin’ to Hawk, I writes to Mary in me best hand, what Hawk’d be proud of if he could see it!

  Sydney

  May 25, 1862

  Our dearest Mama,

  Hawk and me be in a spot of bother. Please come to Sydney and bring five hundred pounds. You can leave a message for me at the Hero of Waterloo in The Rocks.

  Your obedient son

  Tommo X Solomon.

  I dunno if that’ll do the trick—but I hopes so. I feel bad about keeping the sting a secret from Hawk but I tells meself it ain’t worth bothering him with ‘til I know if it might work. As Ikey says, ‘First get the most important agreement, my dears, then use it to obtain any others you may need. It be most difficult to persuade a partner when you has nothing o’ substance held up to advantage.’ And so I’ll wait ‘til Mary agrees before I tell Hawk she’s coming to Sydney.

  In the meantime I try to come up with a way for Hawk to beat the Bolt if Mary won’t give us the bribe and we has to do it kosher. Something comes to me in Tang Wing Hung’s opium den in Chinatown, though it’s still mostly chancy.

  Mr Tang Wing Hung has a place what’s entirely for opium-smoking two doors down from his eating house. Those of ‘respectable’ European background goes to a private room at the eating-house and escapes through a hidden doorway into the alley behind. A signal is given from two doors down and the opium den is opened.