Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  One of the leaders of the Miners’ League, Mr Cameron, told Caleb that if the payment were a subscription fee for the three of us to join, they’d play the whole morning for naught. But we has refused, being most wary o’ those who are against the Chinese, what we thinks has done nothing wrong other than to be a different colour.

  A special correspondent from the Sydney Morning Herald has come out here incognito to report on the Miners’ League and their battle against the celestials. He’s said to lurk about the diggings, making up scurrilous lies about the miners. Caleb reckons we should recruit him to our cause but we don’t know who he is! Still, if we could encourage the special to add a few lines about Hawk and his fight, that would stir the possum nicely.

  The special’s pen has already struck some hard blows against the diggers, telling his readers that the Chinese ain’t done nothing to the miners and is a most peaceful group. The special also points out that the rough element in the diggings is the real culprits behind the uproar. They make trouble with the Chinese and then steals their claims. Hawk reckons this a very fair point of view, but the mob don’t like it one bit.

  Meantime I has had meself two card games thanks to Caleb’s introductions. The first were with the various shopkeepers, what’s among the richest folk in the diggings, and the second were with the sly grog shop owners and publicans, what’s not short of a bob either. Yours truly won at both!

  Me winnings were ten pounds each time. Twenty pounds is bloody good wages but it falls far short of our ambition. These blokes ain’t true gamblers and is too timid with their wagers. We still need another eighty pounds towards the stake—and that don’t even begin to cover the cost o’ Hawk’s training. I got to get one really big game if I’m to have any hope of making this.

  Tonight I’ve a game with the Irish. It ain’t one set up by Caleb who has warned me against playing poker with these boyos. ‘Tommo, there will not be an honest cove in the game and all of them broadsmen,’ he warns. I can hardly tell him that I won’t be adding even one per cent of honesty to the game meself! I’d rather take me chances and pit me own talent against villains than play with the duffers what he’s lined up.

  With only two games played, the word about Tommo is already out among the respectable folk and they’s all gun shy, even though I didn’t cheat once! At least the rough mob play for big stakes. Besides, I got no choice. We must leave on Tuesday morning to return to Sydney, so this is me last chance.

  I first come across this mob I’m gunna play with while passing out handbills at a place called Possum Creek. They’s not working a claim and they don’t look like they intends to neither. They all sit outside a bark hut playing the flats. I put down a handbill and stop to watch them a while. They’s playing whist and one of the players what’s thrown his hand in picks up the poster.

  ‘What’s it say?’ he asks, holding it upside down.

  I read the handbill out to them and they all stops to listen.

  ‘By Jaysus, that be clever an’ all,’ says one o’ them. ‘The Irishman cannot be beat!’

  ‘Oh? Who says?’ I asks.

  ‘I says,’ he replies. ‘You work for the nigger, then, does yer?’

  ‘Aye,’ I replies. ‘I helps Mr Caleb.’

  Still seated, he grabs me by the shirt front so I’m standing up against him. I’m looking into his foul, grinning mouth of broke teeth. ‘That black bastard be askin’ fer a hidin’, and my oath, he’ll be gettin’ one at the hands o’ the Irish champ!’ He shakes me. ‘I’m inclined to give you a taste o’ what he’s in fer! How’d yer like that, eh?’

  ‘Not much,’ I admits. ‘But I tell you what! If the Irish fight as poorly as they cheats at flats, your man ain’t gunna win.’

  ‘What’s yer mean?’ he growls.

  I take out an ace of hearts from his sleeve and a Jack of the same from behind his collar and throws them down in front of his mates.

  ‘Why, ya right bastard, Micky!’ they chorus.

  ‘Dunno why you bothered. Whose deck is that?’ I point to the cards on the table. All eyes turn to another of the Irishmen. ‘Well, it’s shaved, ain’t it?’ I says.

  It’s a guess o’ course. I can’t tell from where I’m standing. But the moment I says it I see the sly look in the eye of the one they’re all looking at, and I know straight away I be right.

  ‘What’s goin’ on, then?’ one o’ the ruffians shouts, throwing his cards down and rising from the bark table to glare at his mate.

  ‘Righto,’ I says, me heart in me mouth. ‘That’s two of yer what’s cheating. How about the other three, eh?’ Each man looks at the other narrow-eyed. ‘Tell ya what,’ I suggests, ‘let me sit in on yer game. I’ll play ya all together, the lot of you against me! What say you, a shilling a point? But if I catches any of ya cheating, ya drops out of the game. If you catches me, I’ll double any winnings on the table and it all be yours. Are you game, then, gentlemen?’

  Me suggestion’s just silly enough, and them’s just stupid enough to accept. An hour later, three of them’s been tossed out of the game. The other two I clean out too. They look fit to kill when I rise from the table, scooping the pool. Then I hand ’em back their money! ‘Sorry gentlemen, but the nigger lover don’t play with amateurs.’

  The one what grabbed me in the first place has grown very red in the face. He balls his fist. ‘Mind yer mouth, laddy,’ he growls.

  I pretend I ain’t scared. ‘Know a big game, then? High stakes?’ I asks. ‘Among yer mates? Someone maybe ya don’t like, someone what owes ya? Or perhaps you wants revenge, eh? Tell ya what, gentlemen. If you has the nous to set up a big game, high stakes, I’ll cut ya in on ten per cent. But it’s got to be real big. How’s that, then?’

  ‘Twenty,’ says one of ‘em.

  ‘Fifteen,’ says I.

  They agree and we shake on it. I share me black bottle with them and then goes off, telling them they can contact me by leaving a message at the Great Eastern. As I leave I yell, ‘Oh, and gentlemen, take me advice, put yer winnings on Black Hawk!’

  ‘Bullshit!’ one of ’em shouts, but this time they laughs. ‘See ya right soon, Tommo!’ another yells after me.

  Well, since then they’ve found me a game with the Callaghan mob, where the stakes are ten pounds in. It’s to be held in the Great Eastern Hotel, starting ten o’clock tomorrow night.

  Me and Jonah Callaghan, what’s leader of the mob, made the booking. Him and me went to see the proprietor of the Great Eastern, Mr Makepeace Chubb. He’s a little cove, fat, bald and always with a coating of shiny sweat to his florid face. We inspect a room upstairs, to the back of the hotel. Each of us pays the publican a pound for the arrangements, and then we arrange for him to get in two brand new decks o’ cards.

  ‘I’ve got ’em on sale here,’ he volunteers.

  ‘Give us a look then?’ Callaghan asks.

  The publican returns with two packs of Mermaid Brand.

  ‘What’s this shite?’ Callaghan growls.

  ‘He’s right,’ I says to Chubb. ‘They has to be DeLarue & Sons.’

  ‘Oh,’ says Chubb. ‘That serious, is it? I’ll have to get ’em in. Jeremiah Neep has them in stock as I recall.’

  ‘We’ll be in on Sundee mornin’ ter inspect them,’ Jonah warns. ‘Have pen and ink ready, much obliged.’ Though Jonah Callaghan’s words seem mild enough, the way he says them ain’t at all pleasant.

  So ten o’clock this morning, accompanied by Jonah Callaghan, I goes to the Great Eastern. Makepeace Chubb is busy out the back and we sends a message we wants to see the flats. A few minutes later, he comes huffing and puffing to the bar, and puts two packs down on the counter in front of us.

  ‘Where’s pen and quill?’ Callaghan demands.

  The publican sighs and leaves to fetch same.

  I orders two nobblers of Cape brandy and when they comes, I push one in front o’ the Irishman and invite him to inspect the decks. He looks down at the brandy in front of him. ‘What’s this
shite?’ Before I can open me mouth he pushes the drink over me. He throws his head back and shouts to the barman, ‘Oi, you! Irish!’

  ‘Suit yerself. Only trying to be friendly,’ I says, a trifle miffed.

  ‘Yeah, well don’t waste yer breath,’ he replies. ‘Two! With a pint o’ best to go with it!’ He knocks one nobbler o’ whiskey back, chases it with half the beer, then the other Irish whiskey follows and the remainder of the beer. All of this is done straight off, no pause between. Good, I thinks, he’ll be drinkin’ whiskey and beer all night at the game. It’s got to catch up with him unless he be made of cast iron.

  Callaghan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He then picks up a deck and examines it closely, picking gently at the seals with his fingernail to make sure they’s tight closed. He does the same to the second pack of DeLarue. Satisfied, he dips the quill into the ink pot and makes his mark across the seals. I does the same, spending even a little more time at examination before I signs.

  We call for the publican and makes him sign across the front of each pack. Then we follow him out the back and into his office, where he has a small safe for miners to keep their gold in. He fiddles with the combination, groaning as he stoops down low with his back to us. With the safe open, he steps aside so that we can see it’s empty, ‘case we’ve got any ideas. He puts the two decks into the safe and closes the door, scrambling the combination once again. ‘There,’ he says, puffing, ‘all safe and sound, lads.’

  ‘You’ll be sure to see there’s plenty o’ firewood and the hearth be well lit and the room warm?’ I asks. ‘We’ll be playing in our shirt sleeves rolled up to here.’ I indicate the top o’ me arm. ‘No hats to be worn either.’

  ‘Eh? What’s this, then?’ Callaghan scowls.

  ‘Just helps to know there ain’t no handy sleeve or hat about. I’ve known cards what had a natural affinity with sleeves and hats. Hand goes under a hat to scratch a louse. Never know what it might find lurking! Could be the king or queen herself. Or an ace may pop out of a coat sleeve, know what I mean?’

  Jonah turns and stabs a hard finger in me chest. ‘Think we’s gunna cheat ya, does ya?’

  ‘It’s been known to happen,’ says I. ‘But I’ll find you out if you does.’

  ‘Like hell yer will!’

  ‘Steady on now, lads,’ says Makepeace. ‘There’ll be no cards played in this house if yiz going to fight. A drink on the house with my compliments will settle youse down! Cape and Irish with a chaser, if I remember rightly.’

  We follows him through to the bar and he pours the drinks. ‘On the house!’ he repeats, looking a bit pained. ‘Oh yes, and the house takes ten per cent, lads.’

  ‘What?’ Callaghan grumbles.

  Makepeace shrugs, safe behind his bar. ‘As you wish, take it or leave it.’

  ‘It’ll be fine,’ I says.

  ‘Bloody hell it will!’ Jonah growls. ‘Fine is it? It’ll be just fine for you to pay it, laddy.’

  ‘Oh, and another five pounds to cover breakages. Returnable o’ course, if nothing’s damaged!’ Makepeace adds.

  After each of us puts down our share, Callaghan and me walks out into the bright, crisp sunlight and I sticks out me hand. ‘See ya t’morrer, then.’ He ignores me, spitting to the side o’ his boots as he walks away. ‘Charming!’ I exclaims. ‘Real nice to know ya, Callaghan!’

  ‘Fuck off!’ he says, not looking back.

  Well, I thinks to meself, everything’s going just right and dandy for yours truly. Now I’ll go and see how Hawk’s faring.

  Hawk still worries about me too much, I reckon. When I tells him about me game coming up, he looks most worried. ‘Tommo, Caleb Soul says these men are dangerous. They don’t dig for gold but live by robbing others of their dust. Two of the brutes I subdued in Felix’s eating-house were from their gang, or so I was told.’

  I shrugs. ‘Cards is funny. If you win against a villain and they think it’s kosher, or they can’t work out how you done it, you got their respect. It’s sort of honour among thieves.’

  ‘Do these men know this?’ Hawks asks. ‘I’d best come with you to make sure.’

  ‘Hawk, let me go on me own!’

  ‘What if something happens?’

  ‘If you comes with me, o’ course something will happen!’ says I. ‘This time you’ve got to stay a mile away. Them Callaghans don’t know I’m yer brother, only that I works for Caleb.’

  ‘What about today, then? They’ll see you with me, won’t they?’

  ‘Caleb can handle the show with you. He’ll love to spruik it. I’ll just be in the crowd watching. Cheering you on, Hawk!’ I can see Hawk ain’t happy about letting me go alone to the game, but he knows that it’s our best chance to raise the gelt.

  ‘Tommo, be careful, won’t you?’

  ‘Course I will, big brother,’ I say.

  It’s near noon, and already there’s a big crowd outside the Great Eastern Hotel waiting to see Hawk, a brisk trade going on at the bar. It’s about time for Hawk to meet the punters. He walks out and I can see his head sticking up nearly two foot above the crowd. His black shoulders, scarred from O’Hara’s knotted rope, shine ebony in the sunlight. He turns and smiles, showing a row of gleaming white teeth. They be most unusual at our age when most men’s teeth is yellow from tobacco-chewing and pipe-smoking. Hawk’s Maori tattoos give him the look of a black prince or warrior.

  As he wades through the crowd, I admire his huge shoulders and narrow waist. His legs is like tree trunks, but he is trim at the ankle and can move surprisingly quick for such a big fellow. He’s bulging with muscle everywhere—a result of all his work hoisting barrels at Tucker & Co. And his stomach’s like a washboard. I can’t believe the Irishman won’t tremble when he sees him in the ring.

  Hawk climbs the platform to cheers and boos from the crowd. I can tell from their murmurs that they’s struck with his massive size. Just as I walks up to join the mob, the Miners’ League marches in and their band strikes up. I reckon there must be more than two thousand of ’em all up. They play a marching tune with cries of ‘Roll up! Roll up!’ from those behind the banners. It is a grand sight and everyone claps as they comes to a halt. A single drum marks time and at the command of each section leader, each group falls out.

  Meanwhile Hawk stands on the platform like a black general surveying his troops. With blokes from the Miners’ League joining it, the crowd is huge. Caleb Soul has got up on the platform beside Hawk. He brings a hailing funnel to his mouth and calls for silence. When at last the mob settles down, he nods to someone at the foot of the platform. There’s the roll of a kettledrum.

  ‘Diggers and gentlemen!’ he proclaims. ‘I give you the next world champion in the division of heavyweight—the inestimable, pugilistic, ferocious and undefeated Black Hawk, champion of the colony of New South Wales!’

  The crowd cheers and then a voice near the platform calls out, ‘Garn, tell us how many fights ‘e’s ‘ad!’

  ‘Only recently discovered, the Black Hawk has beaten the redoubtable and famous heavyweight, Ben Dunn!’ Caleb bellows over the crowd’s laughter, not missing a beat.

  ‘Who?’ shouts the same wag, to more laughter.

  ‘You, sir,’ says Caleb, pointing to the man, ‘step up and let’s see your form. Up here, lad!’ he indicates the platform. A small man, not much bigger than me, climbs up, with Caleb lending him a hand.

  ‘What’s your name?’ Caleb asks.

  ‘Pat Malone.’ The little cove grins.

  ‘How about you arm-wrestle Black Hawk, Pat Malone? Five pounds to you if you win!’ Caleb says.

  The little cove don’t back down. ‘Can I stand up and use both arms?’ he asks, quick as a flash. Caleb looks at Hawk, who nods. I ain’t so sure it’s a good idea. Though small, the man’s a miner, hardened to manual work. With the use o’ both his arms and his body-weight he won’t be easy to beat.

  The crowd grows quiet as Hawk sits at the arm-wrestling table. The miner takes up
his position, his legs wide apart, and grasps Hawk’s hand in both of his. Caleb holds up his bandanna. ‘Take the strain!’ The bandanna drops. ‘Go!’

  The little cove is no shirker and he keeps Hawk’s hand vertical. Then me brother’s arm starts to go down, and the crowd begins to shout their encouragement.

  The miner is gaining on him and the mob thinks he’s gunna win, so they shouts him on. Hawk’s knuckles is about to touch the deck when he gives a great grunt and swings his arm up. He pushes the little bloke backwards so hard that the miner loses his balance and goes flying off the edge of the platform, into the crowd. It’s an amazing feat of strength.

  Hawk rises quickly to see if Pat Malone’s been hurt. He pulls him gently back onto the platform. The little miner seems no worse for his fall, and Hawk lifts his challenger’s arm as if declaring him the real winner. Then me big brother lifts Mr Malone high above his head and the crowd cheers at this show o’ sportsmanship. He puts the miner down and they shakes hands like the best o’ friends.

  Caleb holds up a five-pound banknote for all to see. ‘Five pounds to Pat Malone for having a go!’ he shouts. ‘Let’s have three cheers for the miners, lads!’ The crowd is completely won over.

  ‘Shit, that’s another fiver I has to win,’ I mutters to meself, but Caleb has done good. The band strikes up a rousing song.

  Caleb now announces that Hawk will talk. ‘Hear from the champion himself!’ He hands the hailing funnel to Hawk. The crowd draw closer so that they hears his every word.

  ‘Gentlemen! I thank you for your time. It’s grand to be among so many friends.’ There’s more cheers and boos. ‘Let me tell you about the Irishman, the Lightning Bolt.’

  The fighter’s fellow countrymen raise a great swell o’ noise at his name and Hawk waits ‘til they has quieted down. ‘My worthy opponent is better known as the Bolt, because he can take a great hammering to the head and yet remain true to his metal.’ The Irish like this remark and I can see they’ll store it up to repeat a thousand times. ‘He is the champion of Ireland and Britain and there is much speculation that he cannot be beaten by anyone in this colony or any other in the Empire! He is a most formidable adversary.’