Tiger Men

by Judy Nunn

  ‘Like many of my fellow countrymen I am a nationalist, sir,’ he said, ‘and in joining those who choose to take a stand for their beliefs I placed myself in a rather dangerous position.’ Powell’s bound to identify with such a story, and it isn’t far from the truth anyway, Mick thought. The only variance in his case was that due to his disastrous botch-up it was his own mob that was after him rather than the British. ‘I am no fugitive from justice, Mr Powell,’ he said, ‘but had I remained in Ireland I may well have become so.’

  ‘I understand, Mr O’Callaghan.’ Jefferson respected the young man for both his conviction and his candour. ‘I understand, indeed. Several of your countrymen were transported here to Van Diemen’s Land for the part they played in the uprising of ’48. They were members of a movement known as the Young Irelanders.’

  The very words sent a frisson of shock through Mick, but he kept his voice steady. ‘Yes, that’s right. They were a little before my time, the Young Irelanders,’ he said. ‘The movement disbanded after the uprising I’m told. Are any of them still here, would you know?’ he asked casually.

  ‘I believe not. I believe upon receiving their pardons they all went their separate ways.’

  Mick could only hope so.

  ‘It is wrong,’ Jefferson said, ‘that a man should be treated as a criminal when he has done no more than fight against what he perceives as injustice.’

  ‘It is indeed, sir, and I thank the good Lord that I did not have to pay such a price.’ Mick felt it wise to change the subject. ‘I arrived here a free man, albeit a poor one, and was lucky enough to be taken under Ma Tebbutt’s wing, God bless her. She gave me lodgings and a job the very day I stepped ashore. She’s helped me a lot, has Ma.’

  Jefferson registered the change of topic, although he’d had no intention of pressing young O’Callaghan any further about his past. Much as he would happily discuss his own past in detail, Jefferson Powell respected the unspoken rules of the working classes of Hobart Town.

  ‘Ma has helped many over the years,’ he agreed. ‘She and Sid both, good people at heart.’

  Jefferson well remembered the Hunter’s Rest and the little room out the back where he’d stayed rent free for a whole month in exchange for chopping firewood and carting barrels of ale. He remembered the bowls of hot stew Ma had personally doled out for him on those wintry nights when he’d returned from another fruitless day’s search, bewildered by people’s reticence to employ him. He’d never thought to lie about his political background. What would have been the point anyway? His accent gave him away the moment he opened his mouth. I was so unworldly in those days, he thought. Dear God, it had been a whole two weeks before he’d realised there was a brothel upstairs. When one of the girls had propositioned him he’d gathered she was a prostitute and quickly knocked back her offer for fear of catching the dreaded pox about which his father had warned him, but even then the thought of a brothel upstairs hadn’t crossed his mind. Why would it? He’d arrived in Van Diemen’s Land a virgin of barely twenty, and four years later when Ma Tebbutt had taken him in, he’d been a virgin still. Jefferson smiled at the memory. How naive he’d been.

  He hauled his mind back to the present. ‘I owe a great deal to Sid and Ma Tebbutt,’ he said. ‘In fact I can safely say they altered the course of my destiny, for had Sid Tebbutt not gained me employment with McLagan Transport I would not have met my future wife. And had I not met my future wife, I would have returned to whatever America had in store for me.’ He smiled as he added, ‘Which could never have compared with the life I now lead.’

  Mick was amazed. He didn’t know what to make of the situation. The man appeared to be blatantly admitting that he’d married his employer’s daughter for personal gain, yet his admission was made with such charm and frankness it was difficult to believe him capable of such an action.

  Then, as if on cue, the door was pushed open to reveal a small boy who was prevented from entering the room by the firm grip of the woman standing behind him.

  ‘That’s naughty of you, Georgie,’ the woman said, with a Glaswegian accent. ‘Very, very naughty: I told you to knock.’

  ‘But it was ajar,’ the boy argued. ‘When the door’s not closed I’m allowed to come in, aren’t I, Pa?’

  ‘Not when your mother’s told you to knock, George – you know that.’ Jefferson frowned with mock severity and the boy looked duly chastised.

  The two men rose to their feet.

  ‘This is Mr O’Callaghan, my dear,’ Jefferson said. ‘Mr O’Callaghan, may I introduce my wife, Doris, and my son George?’ He winked at the boy who grinned back. Discipline in the Powell household was obviously Doris’s domain.

  ‘Mrs Powell.’ Mick nodded deferentially.

  ‘How do you do, Mr O’Callaghan?’ She gave a brief nod of acknowledgement in return before addressing the boy. ‘You may shake hands, Georgie,’ she said, and the boy stepped forward to offer Mick a handshake that was firm and confident. He was a six-year-old replica of his father.

  ‘How do you do, sir?’ he said.

  ‘A pleasure to meet you, George.’

  ‘Forgive the interruption, dear,’ Doris said to her husband, ‘but I wondered whether you gentlemen might like a cup of tea.’

  ‘What an excellent idea, although I think upon our return might be preferable.’ He looked a query at Mick. ‘I suggest we take a walk down to the river, Mr O’Callaghan. I can show you the lay of the land so to speak and perhaps, if it would suit you, we might have a brief sail?’

  Mick was pleased. He was being put to the test. ‘That would suit me perfectly, Mr Powell.’

  ‘Very well,’ Doris briskly replied. ‘I shall have tea ready for . . . let us say, eleven o’clock?’

  She seems rather bossy, Mick thought.

  ‘We shall be back on the dot of eleven, I promise,’ Jefferson said as he crossed to the door.

  ‘Can I come too, Pa?’ George asked.

  ‘No, you may not.’ It was his mother who answered. ‘Your father and Mr O’Callaghan have business to discuss. I’ll expect you in one hour, dear. You too, Mr O’Callaghan. I hope you like fruitcake.’

  ‘I do, ma’am, thank you.’ He smiled politely before following Jefferson down the hall that led to the rear of the house.

  Now that the mystery was solved to his satisfaction, Mick was delighted. Doris was proof positive that his original deduction had been correct. He’d begun to question whether perhaps Jefferson Powell was not an opportunist at all, whether perhaps he really was the true gentleman Ma believed him to be, but the arrival of Doris had dispelled any such doubt. Doris was homely. In fact Doris was more than homely: Doris was decidedly plain. Powell, handsome as he was, could surely have had his pick of beauties, and yet he had chosen Hamish McLagan’s dumpy daughter, Doris. As a result, he was now a man of property with a respectable position in society, and he behaved, furthermore, as if he’d been born to it.

  Mick was lost in admiration. Powell was not only an opportunist and a smart operator, he was a consummate performer. His only giveaway was Doris herself. No man like Jefferson Brindsley Powell would marry such a woman without an ulterior motive. Perhaps he is an out and out fraud, Mick thought. The name was certainly splendid enough to be an invention. Mick rather regretted now that he’d not gone to a little more trouble with his own name. Michael Patrick O’Callaghan had seemed very grand compared with plain old Mick Kelly, but it didn’t come close to Jefferson Brindsley Powell.

  He stood watching as Powell donned his work boots and work coat in the back porch.

  ‘Doris won’t have muddy boots inside,’ Jefferson said.

  ‘Very sensible.’ Ah well, Mick supposed, a plain and bossy wife is a small price for an ex-convict to pay in exchange for a life of relative luxury.

  They walked around the side of the house, hands in pockets and coat collars pulled up as, though the weather was fine with not a cloud in the sky, the winter breeze was chilly. They crossed through the garden and o
ut the front gate and Jefferson explained the workings of the McLagan Ferry-Boat Service.

  ‘We use small craft,’ he told Mick ‘Easily manoeuvrable for an oarsman, and just a spritsail and jib when the breeze is right.’

  Mick nodded. He’d seen many such vessels plying the Derwent carrying passengers and goods shore to shore, principally between the wharves of Hobart Town and the settlement of Bellerive on the eastern side.

  They turned down the track that led to the water.

  ‘The boats work mainly out of Waterman’s Dock,’ Jefferson said, ‘but our business is run from here on the south side of Battery Point where I have a slipway for annual overhauling and general repairs. I keep one craft here permanently for the transportation of people and goods from ship to shore,’ he continued. ‘A tricky business when there are many large vessels at anchor, particularly in rough weather conditions.’ He cast a meaningful look at Mick. ‘That job I reserve for my most experienced waterman.’

  ‘And how many craft do you have, Mr Powell?’

  ‘Currently five in all.’

  ‘But you intend to expand.’ It was a statement rather than a question.

  They’d arrived at the water’s edge and as they came to a halt, Jefferson glanced keenly at the young Irishman. ‘Why do you say that?’

  Powell seemed to be studying him intently and Mick hoped he hadn’t appeared presumptuous. ‘You said currently, sir. You said you currently have five craft.’

  ‘Ah, yes, I did indeed.’ Satisfied with the answer, the American shifted his focus to the view. ‘Just look at that. Magnificent, isn’t it?’

  ‘It certainly is.’

  There was silence for a moment as they stood on the shaly shoreline and looked out over the vast, everwidening river as it neared the end of its journey to the mighty Southern Ocean. To their right was the burgeoning conglomeration of shipbuilding yards, so at odds with the majesty of the surrounding landscape. Ugly jetties intruded clumsily upon the river’s beauty; launching ramps tumbled into the water like so much discarded firewood; and up on the slipways sat the naked skeletons of half-made vessels, raw and somehow obscene. To the uninitiated it no doubt appeared an unsightly mess, but to a man like Jefferson Powell this hive of industry was exciting, for here was where his future lay. Here he would build the ketches that would ply the D’Entrecasteaux Channel and the Huon River servicing the fruit and timber trade. Jefferson Powell was most certainly expanding his business, but he was not about to tell young Mick O’Callaghan any details yet.

  ‘This way,’ he said, abruptly breaking the silence and, turning their backs to the shipyards, the two men set off along the shoreline.

  Several minutes later, they rounded the point and Mick saw before them a slipway and a jetty with a vessel approximately fifteen feet in length and four feet abeam moored alongside. A small sandstone cottage sat fifty yards or so from the water’s edge. Jefferson led the way towards it.

  ‘Welcome to the headquarters of the McLagan Ferry-Boat Service,’ he said with a smile.

  As they climbed the two steps leading up to the front porch he took a key from his work coat pocket; when he’d unlocked the door they stepped inside.

  Mick looked about. The room, with a low wooden-beamed ceiling, was not large and appeared to serve as both office and store room. To the left sat a desk and chair together with a bookshelf and cabinet, and to the right was an array of boating equipment. Oars and boathooks were propped in a corner. Rigging and canvas sails were loosely suspended along one wall to keep them damp free and protected from the ever-present threat of mould, and from hooks in the overhead beam hung ropes and all forms of tackle. Directly ahead was a door that led to the rest of the cottage.

  Jefferson too was looking about. ‘Strange to think this used to be our bedroom,’ he remarked incongruously. Then he laughed, aware of the Irishman’s bemused response. ‘Doris and I spent many happy years in this cottage,’ he said, handing Mick a set of oars and rowlocks. He picked up the rigging and sails and they stepped back outside.

  ‘You lived here?’ Mick asked. The information having been freely offered there seemed no harm in asking for clarification, and he was keen to know all he could of Powell’s past.

  ‘We did indeed,’ Jefferson said as, rigging and oars slung over their shoulders, they set off for the jetty. ‘The cottage and this half-acre of land that it stands on was a wedding gift from Doris’s father, Hamish. I took over the ferry service, allowing him to concentrate on the McLagan Road Transport Company, so the acquisition of the property was very much to Hamish’s advantage.’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ Mick said. To Hamish’s advantage?

  ‘Doris and I spent seven happy years waking up every morning with all this at our doorstep,’ Jefferson’s sweeping gesture encompassed the whole of the mighty Derwent. ‘It enriches the soul, Mr O’Callaghan, I can assure you.’ They’d reached the jetty. ‘I must admit though,’ he added as they walked out towards the boat, ‘the cottage became very cramped after our second child, Martha, was born. We’re far more comfortable now in the big house.’

  How very convenient of the old man to die, Mick thought, astounded once again by Jefferson Powell’s unashamed series of admissions.

  ‘It’s a fine thing to have such fond memories, sir,’ he said.

  ‘It certainly is, Mr O’Callaghan.’

  Mick climbed into the vessel and Jefferson handed the oars and the rigging down to him.

  ‘A good stiff breeze,’ the American said. ‘Are you happy to set out under sail and take up the oars on the way back?’

  ‘Perfectly happy, Mr Powell.’

  Jefferson climbed aboard and began tending to the rigging.

  ‘Do you not think, sir,’ Mick suggested lightly, ‘that as I’m the one being put to the test, it might be a good idea if perhaps I rig the vessel on my own?’

  ‘Why yes.’ Jefferson smiled. There was something particularly charming about the young Irishman. ‘Yes, that would be an excellent idea.’

  Although Mick had not previously rigged a craft of this particular design, he had rigged other small craft, and the spritsail, spar and jib fittings hardly compared to the complex rigs he’d worked with aboard the Maid. In only minutes he’d completed the task as Jefferson sat amidships watching approvingly.

  Everything was in readiness. All they now needed to do was raise the canvas.

  ‘You take the helm,’ Jefferson said.

  They worked as a team, swift and efficient, Jefferson releasing the bowline, Mick casting off from the stern. When the solid wooden vessel was adrift, they raised the spritsail.

  The heavy canvas cracked, whip-like and angry. Then as the sail caught the wind, Jefferson hauled on the mainsheet, taking in the slack, Mick simultaneously set them on a tight starboard tack, and they were off.

  Once safely underway, they raised the jib, picking up even more speed, and for the next twenty minutes Mick took great pleasure in showing off his skills. He’d enjoyed sailing light craft with Seamus when they’d been holed up in Rio de Janeiro and Cape Town, the Maid taking on provisions and undergoing repairs; Seamus had been a very thorough teacher. Now, with several large ships at anchor in the bay, he tacked from one to the other, manning both the tiller and the spritsail while Jefferson manned the jib, a task which would normally have been that of the forward hand and junior member of a two-man team.

  It wasn’t long before Jefferson suggested they turn back. He was more than satisfied with the Irishman’s skill as a helmsman, and clouds were now gathering overhead. ‘We might be in for some rain,’ he said.

  In typically perverse fashion, the weather had indeed changed. Hobart Town was renowned for its mercurial weather.

  Mick made several tacks on their way back to Battery Point, but they were still quite some distance from the McLagan jetty when Jefferson gave the order to lower the sails.

  ‘We’ll row from here,’ he said, the ‘we’ clearly meaning that Mick was to row.

  J
efferson Powell sincerely hoped young Michael O’Callaghan would pass this final test: he’d taken a liking to the Irishman. He had his doubts, however. As a yachtsman O’Callaghan was more than competent, but how strong was he as an oarsman? He’d have a stiff south-westerly to contend with and he didn’t appear to be carrying much muscle.

  Mick turned the vessel into the wind, the canvas flapping wildly, and they lowered the sails.

  When the rigging was secured, the men changed positions. Mick settled himself amidships and started to row, while Jefferson sat in the stern, ready to take over when the Irishman’s strength gave out, as he suspected it would.

  Mick rowed methodically, concentrating on his breathing and the rhythm of his actions as Seamus had taught him. ‘Let your lungs do the work, Mick,’ he could hear his old friend say, ‘your strength lies in your breathing. Match it to the rhythm, Mick. Match your breath to the rhythm and row with your whole body.’

  The wind cut across the vessel’s bow and in order to stay on course he had to favour his starboard oar, but he didn’t once alter his rhythm. He concentrated on the landmarks he’d lined up as sights on the far eastern riverbank and rowed with his whole body as Seamus had taught him.

  Small though the boat was, she was sturdy and heavy, but she was also well-crafted and built for a good oarsman. She ploughed cleanly and steadily through the water like a well-trained horse obeying its master.

  On and on Mick rowed. He could feel the blood pumping through his body and he could feel his heart pounding with the effort. But his stroke remained constant. Not once did he break the pattern of his breathing and rhythm as he continued to the chant of Seamus’s voice. Match your breath to the rhythm and row with your whole body. Match your breath to the rhythm and row with your whole body. He kept his eyes on the opposite bank and his landmarks, but he knew Powell was watching, waiting for him to weaken. He must show no signs of fatigue. On and on he went, following the chant, refusing to alter the pace he had set for his body, and despite the coursing of his blood and the pounding of his heart, he felt he could row forever.