by Judy Nunn
None of which helped Ma’s chest condition, for the damp and the mud and the mould had all made their way upstairs.
‘You could have wiped your boots,’ she said accusingly. She was in one of her crotchety moods and it was obvious she was already well into the rum.
‘Wiped them on what? There’s mud everywhere, Ma, you can’t escape it.’
She was about to berate him further, but the breath she took to give voice brought on a coughing fit.
The fit lasted for some time and Mick held the bowl for her while she hawked gobs of phlegm into it. He noticed a little blood there. That surely isn’t a good sign, he thought. Finally it was over and she sat back, weakened by her efforts.
‘This fucking damp will be the end of me,’ she said. ‘Pour us another rum, Mick, and fetch a mug for yourself.’
They had a tot each. She’d obviously forgiven him his muddy boots, but she was in a general ill-humour, which didn’t make her much fun, and the Irish fiddle downstairs was calling to Mick.
‘No thanks, Ma,’ he said as she offered him a second tot, ‘I’ll pop down and say hello to the girls before business picks up.’ He stood.
‘All right, run off and leave me, see if I care.’ She poured herself another rum. ‘Make yourself useful while you’re down there. Teach that dumb bastard how to do his job. Len told me there was trouble again last night.’
Ma was constantly whinging about the man she’d hired in his stead, a giant of a fellow called Thomas, whom the girls had nicknamed Tiny. Tiny’s appearance was a deterrent to the average troublemaker it was true, but he was not very bright. ‘All brawn no brains,’ she’d say. ‘Can’t sense when trouble’s brewing.’
‘Right you are, Ma, right you are,’ Mick said, just to keep her happy. ‘I’ll have a word with Tiny, I promise.’
I won’t, he thought as he went downstairs. What would be the point? Besides, he wasn’t here to instruct the hired help, he was here to have a good time.
‘Hello, Tiny,’ he called above the fiddle and the general din of the room, ‘how’re things going then?’
‘Oh, hello Mick,’ Tiny called back and he gave his amiable grin. ‘Things are good. Going to be a busy night, I’d say.’
He was a nice young man, but Ma was right, he wasn’t bright. Mind you, Mick thought, looking around the room, his remark is spot on. The girls were in for a busy night.
The fiddler always got things going and, although it was not yet nine o’clock, the room was lively. Already men were shifting benches and tables to make space as Maeve started her wild Irish dance. Some who were eating their bowls of stew refused to budge, and took no notice of Maeve, or of the girls who were urging her on. But as others stamped their boots to the fiddle, mud splattering on breeches, and as cries of encouragement went up with each fresh exposure of Maeve’s bare legs, it promised to be a lusty Saturday night.
Mick popped into the kitchen where Freddie was doling out the last of the stew.
‘Do you want some?’ Evie asked. ‘You’re just in time.’
‘No thank you, my lovely.’
He kissed her and fondled her breasts as she passed by. With a bowl of stew in each hand she was unable to put up any resistance, not that she would have anyway, and she laughed before disappearing into the main room.
Mick chatted with Freddie for a while then returned to the main room himself, stepping up to the bar and leaning over to talk to Billy, who was busily pouring tankards of ale. Then, his own tankard in hand, he turned to watch the proceedings. He always propped at the bar. On a slightly higher level than the main floor, it offered the best vantage point.
Sheer force of habit found Mick observing the room with a sharp eye. He noted that Len had already positioned himself beside the door to the stairs, although it was a little early for sex to take priority with the customers. As a rule, men liked to drink themselves into a lustful state. Len too clearly believed it was going to be a busy night.
He glanced at Tiny, who was standing beside the main doors, checking out new arrivals, his eyes sweeping the room now and then, but obviously taking in little. Over in the far corner a big man with a massive ginger beard had Peg up against the wall and was all but fucking her. Tiny should be breaking that up, Mick thought. He would certainly have done so himself. ‘Excuse me, sir, but would you like to take the lady upstairs?’ he would have said very politely; and if the man had refused he’d have shown him the door, with the pistol if necessary. That’s what Tiny should be doing. But Mick couldn’t be bothered teaching Tiny his job, and he refused to do it for him. Besides, he’d recognised Ginger Beard. The man drank at the pub regularly, and on the occasions he had a woman he invariably chose Peg. She’d get him upstairs before long. Peg could look after herself.
Maeve had set the mood and as the fiddler started up again the girls enticed men to dance with them. Mick’s toe was tapping. He was of a mind to dance, but he wouldn’t dance with one of the girls – he would leave them for the clients. The kitchen now being closed he was about to fetch Evie when he noticed the man who’d just entered. Every time there was a new arrival his eyes flickered to the main doors, pure habit.
Tiny had given the man no more than a cursory glance, but Mick sensed something disturbing about the newcomer. Unprepossessing in appearance, he was not a big man, nor was he young. He’d be close to fifty, Mick guessed, wiry of build and unkempt, his hair long and his beard scraggy. There were many such men roaming the streets of Hobart Town, lost souls for the most part with minds that wandered. But this one is not lost, Mick thought. Nor was his mind wandering: this one was bent on a purpose.
The man glanced keenly about as he edged through the crowd. He’s looking for someone, Mick thought. He didn’t appear to be searching among the drinkers though, his eyes were darting from woman to woman. Then, upon spying the couple in the corner, he headed directly for them. It’s Peg he’s after, Mick thought. This could mean trouble. He glanced over at Tiny, who was still blissfully unaware of any potential problem. Oh well, he told himself, it isn’t my place to interfere, and he sipped at his ale watching with interest for what would happen next.
Above the fiddle and the general hubbub, Mick couldn’t hear the men’s altercation, but he didn’t need to. Their dispute was not one that would be solved with words anyway. The newcomer pulled Peg away from the big man and started with her towards the door that led upstairs, but he didn’t get more than a pace or so before the big man grabbed Peg’s arm and hauled her back to him, protesting angrily. The newcomer, however, remained persistent. The woman was coming upstairs with him.
Scraggy versus Ginger Beard, Mick thought, very interesting. Despite the size and age discrepancy, he’d probably put his money on Scraggy. The man looked tough. There was something feral about him.
Several of the drinkers standing nearby realised a fight was imminent and started backing off to allow the protagonists space.
On the other side of the room, Tiny finally got the message and started edging his way through. But by then Mick had seen the flash of metal. Ginger Beard had a blade. It was going to be a knife fight. And Peg was in the middle.
‘Give us the pistol, Billy,’ he hissed, and Billy dived his hand under the bar.
Peg screamed as the big man clutched her to him, thrusting the knife at the newcomer, daring him to try and take her. The newcomer, however, was undaunted by the knife. If anything, the appearance of the weapon made him all the more dangerous. He assumed a crouching position and stared the big man directly in the eyes, like an animal about to launch its attack.
A circle quickly formed around the two men, but the fight didn’t get any further.
‘Let her go,’ Mick said as he stepped into the circle, the pistol aimed directly at the big man’s head.
Ginger Beard slowly released Peg, who backed off thankfully to join Maeve and the other girls.
‘No knives in the bar.’ Mick kept his aim steady. ‘Give it to Tiny.’
Tiny, who was now standing impoten
tly nearby, stepped forwards and held out his hand.
Ginger Beard looked from the pistol to the giant and back again, but seemed reluctant to relinquish his knife.
‘It’s simple.’ Very patiently Mick spelt out the rules. ‘Either leave now with the knife, or if you want to stay give it to Tiny. You can collect it from him later, on your way out.’
Ginger Beard handed the knife to Tiny, and Mick lowered the pistol, although he kept it at the ready.
‘Well now,’ he said pleasantly, ‘if you two gentlemen wish to fight over Peg’s favours, I suggest you do so outside.’
Scraggy and Ginger Beard eyed each other off for a second or so. Then Ginger Beard removed his jacket and dumped it on a bench. Scraggy didn’t bother removing his. He simply turned and led the way out into the back lane. Ginger Beard followed him and, drinks in hand, the crowd followed Ginger Beard, two of the men fetching lamps to light up the show. This was true Saturday night entertainment.
‘Hardly a fair fight though,’ someone muttered, and others agreed it was a bit of a disappointment. They would like to have laid bets on the outcome, but most of them knew Dave, the big man. Dave was handy with his fists. Besides, he was heavier and younger than the scrawny newcomer: no point in wasting money.
‘Don’t you believe it,’ Maeve said scornfully, ‘your mate Dave doesn’t stand a chance against the tiger man, am I not right, Peg?’
Beside her, Peg nodded. ‘You are indeed. Dave won’t last two minutes, and that’s a fact.’
There were one or two others present who knew of the tiger man’s reputation and word was quickly passed along. Men started betting one another, the tiger man or Dave.
Mick watched, intrigued. Who is this tiger man? he wondered.
As it turned out Peg was right. Dave didn’t last two minutes.
The tiger man was agile, avoiding punches and clinches while landing blows in vulnerable places with lightning speed. There were no rules to the way he fought. Fists or feet – whatever proved effective. After catching Dave off balance and wearing him down, the tiger man closed in to deliver the final blows. A chop to the throat, and the side of his hand connected with the Adam’s apple. A further chop to the nose, and there was the crunch of cartilage. A lethal fist to the solar plexus and the big man was on his knees. And, finally, just to make sure, a well-aimed boot to the kidneys.
Dave sprawled face down in the mud. He struggled to rise, making it once again to his knees, but a forceful kick in the ribs found him flat on his back, blinking up through the haze of mud and blood that blurred his vision.
The tiger man placed his boot on Dave’s chest, like a hunter posing with his kill. ‘Your knife wouldn’t have done you much good, my friend,’ he said looking down at him, ‘I’d have skinned you alive in there.’
It was the first time Mick had heard the man speak. The tiger man was an Irishman, he realised, a northerner – Belfast by the sound of it.
‘Perhaps I’ll flay you right here and now, what do you say about that?’ Reaching beneath his jacket, the tiger man drew his Bowie knife from its sheath. ‘I’d need to gut you first of course.’ He took his boot from the man’s chest and, bending down, he placed the tip of the knife’s ten-inch blade between the base of Dave’s ribs. ‘I’d start around here,’ he said and very slowly he traced a line down the stomach, his knife cleaving a path in the mud. ‘And I’d end up around here.’
With the knife’s tip now resting just above his genitals, Dave continued to blink foggily up at his tormentor.
‘But then perhaps not.’ The tiger man stood, and his leathery face crinkled into a humourless smile. ‘I don’t think I’d get much value for your hide.’ He turned to the crowd, his eyes searching for Peg. She and Maeve were standing right in the front. ‘Come on upstairs now,’ he said.
Peg flicked her hair back and puffed her chest out like a pouter pigeon. She was well on the wrong side of thirty and men were still fighting over her: it was something to be proud of, there was no denying it.
The tiger man draped his arm around his prize and was about to return to the bar when he caught sight of Mick.
‘Oh, I forgot. No knives in the bar.’ This time the smile was humorous, although it was curiously lopsided, and Mick could see in the eyes that met his the glint of something that might have been just a little unbalanced. ‘Perhaps you’d look after this for me, friend,’ the tiger man said and he handed the Bowie knife to Mick. ‘I’ll collect it from you later, on my way out.’
He departed with Peg firmly in tow and the crowd dispersed leaving several of Dave’s friends to tend to him.
As he walked back inside with Maeve and the girls, Mick examined the Bowie knife. It was a lethal-looking weapon, but handsome, of the finest steel, coffin-handled and well crafted. This is not a Sheffield Bowie of English manufacture as many are, he thought. This is the real thing, a genuine American ‘Arkansas toothpick’. He wondered why the tiger man had entrusted him with such a valuable possession. This knife would be worth a tidy sum.
‘Who is he, Maeve?’ he asked. ‘What’s his real name? Why is he the tiger man?’
‘He’s the tiger man because he hunts tigers,’ Maeve said as if Mick was daft for asking. ‘I’ve no idea what his real name is. I don’t think anyone around here knows. Peg doesn’t, and she’s been with him a number of times.’
‘How is it that I’ve never seen him then?’
‘He hasn’t been near the place for a good two years or more. Used to come in once or twice a year. Never chose anyone else but Peg.’ Maeve smiled knowingly. ‘The scrawny ones always fancy big breasts – have you noticed that? Anyway, there’s been trouble like this before. The tiger man won’t wait his turn. If Peg’s chatting with someone else, he just drags her off upstairs and woe betide any who stand in his way. Personally, I think he enjoys the fight as much as the fuck. But if the truth be known, Mick,’ Maeve gave him a wink – she loved sharing the gossip – ‘a man would be wiser to bide his time and wait. A glass of ale and Peg’d be back.’ She rolled her eyes heavenwards, indicating the bedrooms. ‘The tiger man doesn’t muck about up there.’
‘Oh is that so?’
‘Indeed it is. You just wait and see. He’ll be downstairs inside fifteen minutes, and bear in mind that’s accounting for the undressing and all. Not that he undresses,’ she added with a snort, ‘but Peg does. Like I said, he fancies big breasts.’
‘Right you are. Thanks, Maeve.’
Maeve’s reckoning was only slightly out.
‘I’ll have my knife back now, thanks.’ It was twenty minutes later.
Mick handed over the Bowie knife, and was surprised when the tiger man suggested they pop outside with an ale.
‘It’s too noisy in here and I’m starved for a chat,’ the tiger man said. Then he added with an air of mockery, ‘Besides, no knives in the bar.’
Billy poured them their ales and they adjourned to the back lane where they stood in the light that spilled from the open doorway. As they raised their tankards in a silent toast Mick wondered why, of all those present, the tiger man should have singled him out for a chat.
‘What’s your name?’ the tiger man asked, wiping ale from his moustache with the back of his hand.
‘Mick. Mick O’Callaghan.’ Mick looked the older man boldly in the eye. ‘What’s yours?’
The tiger man gave a careless shrug. ‘Dan will do.’ In offering no surname he intended no insult, however, for there was approval in his eyes as he sized up his fellow countryman. ‘You did a good job in there, Mick,’ he said. ‘You’re a young man who handles himself well. I like the cut of your jib.’
The nautical reference seemed a bit of a giveaway. ‘You’re a seaman?’ Mick asked.
‘Of sorts. In my youth, many, many years ago, I was a sealer. Worked right here from Hobart Town,’ he gave another shrug. ‘But the seals ran out.’
‘So now you’re a tiger man.’
‘I am that. There’s money in thylacines. The V
an Diemen’s Land Company used to pay a good price, but for the past ten years or so I’ve found the sheep farmers are offering more than the consortium. These days I collect from both, which proves quite profitable I must say.’
‘You’re a bounty hunter then?’ Mick was fascinated. During his eighteen months in Van Diemen’s Land he’d never been outside Hobart Town. He’d heard of the bounty hunters, tough men who lived mostly to the north, but he’d not met one before.
‘Indeed I am.’ Dan was gratified to see he was making such an impression on his newfound friend. ‘I collect bounty on whatever’s going. Devils and tigers and feral dogs – you name it – but the tigers fetch the best price. In the old days of course it was the blacks. There was good money in blacks.’
‘Blacks?’
Mick was momentarily bewildered, but Dan carried on, oblivious to any confusion on his audience’s part. He was very much enjoying the chat.
‘Twenty-five years ago now it was, in Governor Arthur’s time. I’d have been about your age. Dear God,’ he added wryly as he stared out into the night, ‘it seems like only yesterday. Back then the government offered a bounty for the capture of Aborigines: five pounds an adult, two pounds a child. Oh, I tell you, Mick, a man could get rich in those days. A black was worth a lot more than a tiger.’ He shook his head regretfully. ‘But like the seals of course they’re gone.’
Mick remembered a conversation he’d had with Jefferson about the shameful annihilation of the Aborigines, and how their dwindling numbers had finally been rounded up and taken to Flinders Island. It hadn’t really been a conversation at all, it had been one of Jefferson’s tirades. He’d just nodded at the time – he’d been a bit out of his depth. But he wondered now what Jefferson would say if he could hear Dan the tiger man.
‘Anyway, enough about me,’ Dan said, ‘tell me about yourself, Mick. This is what I come into town for,’ he urged enthusiastically, ‘a woman first and then some hearty conversation. A man gets starved for both out there in the wild.’
‘What do you want to know?’
‘Nothing too personal,’ Dan quickly assured him. ‘I wouldn’t want to pry, God forbid, only after a bit of a chat. How long have you been working at the pub?’
