Still they held on, the Indian forcing the black man’s hand almost to the table top, before it would be slowly lifted, each movement greatly taxing both wrestlers. The punters had taken to screaming with each turnabout as though, by their voices alone, they could add strength to the man they had backed.
Finally Tomahawk began to sense he had the black man’s measure. The front of both their shirts was now drenched with blood as well as sweat. Beads of perspiration shone in the crinkly hair of Black Boss Cape Town, and the smooth dark hair of his opponent lay soaked against his coppery skin. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Tomahawk worked his opponent’s arm, forcing it towards the surface of the table. Black Boss Cape Town’s hand was no more than an inch from the table when he spat into Tomahawk’s face.
The shock was so great that the giant Red Indian lost control, and Black Boss forced his hand back to the upright position, and then over to the other side so that Tomahawk’s hand was now only an inch from the table on the African’s side.
Suddenly there rose in Tomahawk’s throat a cry that seemed to come from deep within his belly as the black man’s bloody spittle ran down his face. His eyes burned in his head as his hand rose and rose, pushing the negro’s fist to the upright position and then slowly down, until, with a second great wail, he smashed the top of Black Boss Cape Town’s hand onto the table. It was all over. Tomahawk had won the contest, though both men were too exhausted to lift their heads, and their arms lay limp and useless on the table.
Sperm Whale Sally moved across to where Tomahawk sat and gently raised his head. With a wet sea sponge she wiped his face clean. Then she did the same for Black Boss Cape Town, wiping the blood from his cheek. ‘You both true blue, both my good lads!’
Ikey had somehow climbed back onto the table, and now he began to wave his hands and shout until the pandemonium ceased. ‘I can’t make no payment on the bets until the contest be complete!’ Finally the crowd noise calmed down sufficiently for him to be heard. ‘Tomahawk be the declared winner o’ the first contest, now he must arm wrestle against Sperm Whale Sally!’ He turned to the master of the Sturmvogel. ‘Please captain, move your man!’ Ikey pointed at the black man.
‘Ikey! Whatever are you doing? These boys be exhausted,’ Sperm Whale Sally shouted up at him.
‘Yes, yes indeed, my dear, we must hurry, sit, sit, there is no time to waste!’
Sally suddenly realised what Ikey was up to, and as quickly as possible for someone her size, adjusted her massive bottom upon the vacated stool opposite Tomahawk.
‘Will you get your hand up now, lad!’ Michael O’Flaherty said to the exhausted and bewildered Red Indian.
Tomahawk raised his hand and Sperm Whale Sally grabbed it and held it steady while both their elbows were pressed down on the table.
‘Lady and gentleman, take your positions, please! May the best, er. . .contestant win.’ O’Flaherty again held up the red bandanna. ‘Take the strain. Go!’
Tomahawk had regained a surprising amount of strength in the few minutes he’d been allowed to rest and tried to force his opponent’s hand down in one great effort. This was a big mistake. Sperm Whale Sally’s hand dipped and then lowered almost to the surface of the table, but there it held, draining the Red Indian of all his remaining strength, then she forced it back to the upright position and started to push downwards. As publican of the Pig ‘n Spit she had been required to stack and lift beer barrels on the full, and her fat was deceptive. She was very strong. What new strength Tomahawk had recovered was entirely spent on his first onslaught and not five minutes later Sperm Whale Sally slammed the back of the exhausted harpooner’s hand onto the table.
It was a fitting ending. For generations whalers would tell the story of how the two greatest harpooners in the world had fought for the right to challenge the spirit of the great sperm whale. How after a great fight lasting several hours, between two of the strongest men in the world, the American Red Indian had won over the African giant. Then he pitted himself against the spirit of the great whale and was crushed in less than ten minutes. But the spirit of the great sperm whale would never desert them, nor any of the ships that flew the Blue Sally. But the greatest of the catch seemed always to go to the Merryweather and the Sturmvogel. Or so the legend goes.
It was all over. Ikey and Sperm Whale Sally had made a killing. Not only did they possess the money from both the Merryweather and the Sturmvogel, but they cleared nearly twenty pounds on the bets placed by the drinkers. Ikey could not remember when he had enjoyed himself as much, though he was a trifle disappointed when Sperm Whale Sally insisted that they buy drinks for the crews of both ships. Then to much shouting, joshing and general banter, Sperm Whale Sally bared her left titty and allowed Svensen, the tattoo artist from the Sturmvogel, to tattoo an X, cancelling the name Tomahawk.
‘It be better this way, my lovies,’ Sperm Whale Sally announced to the crew members who stood around her. ‘Now you both be equal true blue! Both be equally blessed by the great good luck o’ the spirit o’ the sperm whale!’ She paused, for she could see that the men from the Merryweather did not look altogether happy with this pronouncement and seemed reluctant to accept her blessing. ‘One more thing be essential if we is to repair what happened tonight,’ she announced solemnly. ‘If you wishes to keep the luck o’ the great sperm, you must do the spirit a final bidding.’ She looked at Black Boss Cape Town and then at Tomahawk. ‘You two must shake hands. Make peace the pair of you! You has broken your luck with your hatred and there is only one way to regain it. You must be friends.’ She grinned and waited a moment and then said, ‘As friends, together you must beach the whale tonight!’
There was a sudden howl of approval from both crews as the tension between them dissolved and they began to shake hands and drink to the health and happy hunting of both ships. Black Boss Cape Town extended his hand to Tomahawk, who took it and smiled, ‘Good man!’ he said. Black Boss Cape Town threw back his head and laughed. ‘We fight!’ he boomed happily, toasting the giant Red Indian.
Sperm Whale Sally took both giants by the hand and led them out of the Whale Fishery and into the dark towards the small beach that lay not fifty yards away.
The moon had climbed to its zenith, a bright silver coin suspended high above the great mountain. A million stars pricked a sky now closer to morning than to midnight. As Sperm Whale Sally sat upon the soft sand, a gentle wave washed into shore and she waited for the sound of it to retreat before she pointed to the giant African.
‘Black Boss Cape Town, you be first and don’t squeeze me left titty, it be most tender!’ She laughed and then turned her head towards the Red Indian. ‘You follow quick, Tomahawk. It must be done quick, the one after t’other, so the spirit o’ the great sperm whale will reach you both in equal portion, and bring you the same great good luck in the next whalin’ season!’
Sperm Whale Sally sighed and lifted her skirts above her gargantuan thighs. ‘Jesus, I be starvin’ hungry,’ she thought as she fell on her back into the soft sand and watched the stars. ‘The things a girl has to do to make a shillin’! I hope that bastard O’Flaherty ain’t cancelled tonight’s Blue Sally challenge, or I’ll be obliged to eat both these bloody savages!’ She guffawed inwardly at the notion as the shape of Black Boss Cape Town blotted out the moon. ‘Oh Gawd, ‘ere we goes again,’ she thought. ‘Lie back and think of a nice little pot roast, my girl!’
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The scam which Ikey perpetrated on the evening that Tomahawk and Black Boss Cape Town met became quite famous and was known among the local wags as the glorious night of ‘Tit for Tat’. This incident had further enhanced the legend of Sperm Whale Sally and made the acquisition of a Blue Sally talisman even more desirable among the men of the whaling fleet. But it also served to benefit Ikey’s own career. He was soon invited to become involved in the local gambling scene, in particular, in the sport of horse racing, which was just then becoming popular in the colony.
Ikey could no
w be seen at the horse races on a Saturday afternoon where he set up in a small way as an on-course bookmaker, but this did not curtail his nocturnal wandering. It was still his custom to perambulate from one waterfront dive to the next selling his tobacco, and he always finished up at the Whale Fishery to spend the last hour of each night in contented conversations with Sperm Whale Sally, happily recalling old times.
Ikey would sip at a glass of well-watered rum and Sperm Whale Sally would nurse her final quart pot of Bitter Rosie for the night. It was a time when Ikey felt almost like his old self, for Sperm Whale Sally never treated him any differently and did not seem to notice or care about his change in fortune. They were two old friends with a common past, content to be in each other’s company, whether silent or merry, both calmed by the presence of the other after a loud and tiring night on the waterfront.
At the end of their hour together, around five of the clock in the morning, and with the help of four cellar-men from the Whale Fishery and Ikey’s own puny contribution, which consisted mostly of meddlesome instructions, Sperm Whale Sally was lifted and manoeuvred and finally loaded into a waiting cart and transported by her driver Dick Smith to her rooms in Wapping scarcely half a mile away. Whereupon Ikey would make his way up the hill to the Potato Factory where, half an hour before sunrise, he would habitually take the first meal of the day with Mary.
Both Ikey and Sperm Whale Sally, the former as thin as a rake and plagued by rheumatism, and the other grown even larger than she had been on the night of the tit for tat scam some nine months previously, enjoyed rude good health by the standards of the day. They could be utterly relied upon to be a part of every Hobart night, but for Sunday, when the public houses were closed for the Sabbath.
Ikey therefore felt some concern when he arrived as usual at the Whale Fishery at four o’clock on the morning of the third Tuesday in November to find Sperm Whale Sally absent.
‘Where be Mistress Sally?’ Ikey asked a cellarman named Orkney, who was sweeping the spent sawdust from the floor. The Whale Fishery was almost empty, with only a handful of whalers still at the bar. Four drunken sailors sat slumped with their heads in their arms over various tables around the room, and two lay unconscious on the floor among the spew, piss and spilt ale. Orkney stopped sweeping and looked about the room.
‘She be here earlier, guv, but be gorn a good hour since.’
‘What, home?’ Ikey queried in surprise.
‘I expects not, guv, there were no cart.’ He continued his sweeping, clearly having no more to add to the conversation.
Ikey walked over to the long bar where a weary Bridget was washing and stacking pewter tankards along the counter.
‘Where be Mistress Sally, Bridget?’ Ikey asked again.
The barmaid glanced over to Sperm Whale Sally’s customary spot. ‘Well I’ll be blessed! She were there to be sure an’ all, I seen ‘er meself, I took ‘er a quart pot o’ bitter not a half hour since.’ Bridget thought for a moment. ‘Mind, she were off ‘er grub tonight, I don’t believe she ate more’n a couple o’ legs o’ mutton. Weren’t no whaler gentleman eating neither, she paid for ‘er victuals ‘erself.’ Noting the concerned look on Ikey’s face, she smiled. ‘Don’t fret, Ikey love, she most probably just gorn outside to do a bit o’ woman’s business, if you knows what I mean.’ Then she added, ‘I seems to recall she said she ‘ad a bit of a stomach ache an’ all.’
Bridget took down a small pewter tankard, filled it to a third of its volume from a small casket of rum and then topped it almost to the brim with water. ‘Here you are then, Ikey, your usual.’ She smiled and in a comforting voice added, ‘Now you sit down, Ikey Solomon. Your friend Sally be back soon with no ‘arm done I expects.’
Ikey sat in the flagging chair until Orkney had almost completed sweeping the large expanse of the floor. He pushed the foul sawdust into a large pile which blocked the doorway. This was a signal to anyone seeking a last drink before dawn that they were not welcome to enter. A good hour had elapsed since Ikey’s arrival, which meant Sperm Whale Sally had been gone at the very least two hours by the cellarman’s earlier reckoning.
‘She must have gorn ‘ome!’ Bridget called over several times. Two of the barmaids who had been clearing up the kitchen had meanwhile been consulted, but both confessed they had not seen Sperm Whale Sally leave.
‘It be half a mile to Wapping,’ Ikey pointed out. ‘She can’t walk ‘alf a mile home and it takes four people to lift her into a carriage, my dear.’ Ikey was irritated at their apparent lack of concern. ‘You would have seen her go if she’d been picked up by Dick Smith, besides, he always stops in for a pint before they leaves, don’t he?’
Bridget was too tired to respond with any further sympathy and simply shrugged. ‘She’ll be back, I expects.’ Ikey rose from the chair and, slinging his tobacco basket over his arm, asked Bridget for one of the lanterns which hung from the wall behind her.
‘I’m going to take a look,’ he announced.
‘We’ll be closing in half an hour,’ Bridget said as she unhooked a lantern and handed it to Ikey. ‘You be sure and bring it back, Ikey Solomon! Leave it at the back door. Mister O’Flaherty will dock me pay if it don’t come back, ‘e be most strict about not taking down no lamps from the wall!’
Ikey only grunted, upset that they did not share his concern for Sperm Whale Sally. He stepped gingerly through the pile of putrid sawdust at the door and walked out into the last vestiges of the night. It was half past four of the clock, with the sunrise less than an hour away.
The late spring night was cool, as it always is an hour before dawn, and a chill breeze blew in from the hills across the Derwent River. Ikey searched the dark corners and alleys along the waterfront, and checked under the hulls of two fishing boats pulled up onto a slip for scraping. Then he moved towards the small, dark beach where the doxies took sailors for ‘sixpenny quick times’ and which Sperm Whale Sally herself used for the consummation of a Blue Sally.
The beach was deserted. Ikey’s boots squeaked as he trudged along the sand towards a wooden fisherman’s jetty which ran some distance out into the river. Even when the tide was in, a small ramp built over a pipeline directly below the jetty provided a dry platform where drunks would sometimes take shelter from the rain. It was not a good place to sleep as the pipelines carried the entrails, fish heads and scales from a public fish market into the cove, and was notorious for the bravery of the rats who infested it at night when the tide was out. Many a sailor or hapless drunkard, falling into a stupor, had woken in the morning to find half an ear or nose missing, or his toes a gory, bloody mess where the rats had chewed through his leather boots.
Ikey stopped just short of the jetty and placed his basket on the sand. Then he climbed up onto the dark platform, which stank of rotting fish. The lantern cast only a small circle of light and he could hear the rats squeaking and see their darting black shadows as they scurried from the lighted perimeter back into the darkness.
Ikey was not repulsed by the stench or the rats. Rats were not only an integral part of the gaming ring, but an everyday occurrence in Ikey’s life. In the rookeries of London rats and foul smells were a given, hardly to be remarked upon.
He moved deeper into the darkest part of the jetty so that the light from his lantern cast a wider glow. What he saw almost made his heart stop beating. A dozen rats sat on the giant shape of Sperm Whale Sally, who lay grotesquely huge and still upon the platform. Ikey let out a terrible moan, for he knew instantly that she was dead.
The rats scuttled away as Ikey plunged forward, missing his footing to land on his knees beside the giant shape of Sperm Whale Sally. Overcome with grief, he laid his head on Marybelle Firkin’s cold breast and started to wail.
‘Wake up!’ he called desperately time and time again, shaking Sperm Whale Sally’s massive shoulder. ‘Wake up please, my dear!’ Ikey sobbed wildly, the intensity of his grief totally unfamiliar to him. After a long while, he gradually became possessed of
his wits again and he slowly recited the words of the Jewish prayer for the dead, even though he knew his friend was not of the Jewish faith.
Not since the departure of Billygonequeer had Ikey felt such a terrible loss and now he lay panting on the sand, too weak even to resolve to rise to his knees. People are people through other people; we constantly seek confirmation of our own existence by how we relate to others. In losing Sperm Whale Sally, Ikey was losing a part of both his present and his past. Only two people in his life had neither judged him nor made demands on him: Billygonequeer and Marybelle Firkin. They had accepted him for what he was and in doing so they had defined a softer, more vulnerable Ikey no one else knew. Both had given his life meaning beyond sheer greed and survival, and now both were gone. Ikey had lost more than two friends, he had lost himself; the Prince of Fences was finally dead.
Only Mary Abacus remained. Yet Mary, with her thriving business and her ambition, was growing more and more impatient with him. Ikey knew she now thought him an old man who argued too much and who had little of value to offer her.
The death of Marybelle Firkin filled Ikey with a terrible fear. He thought of himself dying, quite alone, with no one to mourn him and not even a minyan of ten good Jews to lay him properly to rest.
It was at this moment of his own extreme anxiety that he heard the mewling cry of an infant. At first he thought it to be the rats grown bold and moving closer, or some creature crying out in the night. But soon it came again, faint, muffled, but close at hand. Ikey rose unsteadily and held the lantern above the body of Sperm Whale Sally. One side of her bodice had been pulled away so that a great breast lay exposed. It was as if she had been in pain and had ripped at her bodice in some sudden agony. Above the surprisingly small areola of her pink nipple Ikey saw the tattoo of the Indian chief’s head and the word Tomahawk crossed through with the blue X, which Svensen of the Sturmvogel had tattooed to cancel its potency as the symbol of the Merryweather.
Potato Factory Page 59
