The Nankin Maiden’s an old ship, a barque, but a good un, one hundred and fifty feet from stem to stern with a beam of thirty foot, three hundred tons and well known these thirty years in the Antarctic, Southern Ocean and Pacific waters. She is after sperm whale and we was quickly told that the Yankee sperm whalers are the toughest there be on the seven seas. From the looks of it, there ain’t many Yankees aboard ‘cept for the three mates, the ship’s carpenter, the cook, blacksmith, cooper, sail maker and, o’ course, the master himself. That’s only nine out of forty-two men. The rest is all volunteers, like Hawk and meself, rough men of every colour and shape from sea ports in the Indies and the Caribbean, Cape o’ Good Hope and the islands of the Pacific Ocean. There is also a few Limeys, Irish and Dutchies, mostly picked up in Rio.
Though Hawk were brung up better than me, here he’s treated as a nigger. There is four others, but they be true niggers, two from the Indies and two from the Cape. Hawk’s bigger than all on board, except for one of the Maori and I am glad to have him about.
There be another black what’s not counted a nigger, an Aborigine from the Stoney Creek tribe, name o’ Billy Lanney. Hawk says he must be one of the few Tasmanian natives what’s not been shot as vermin or what died when they was took to be settled on Bruny Island. Lanney keeps to himself, though he is friendly enough when you talks to him.
Lanney is a small man, no bigger than meself, though his head seems larger than suits the body what carries it. Under his canvas breeches, what is rolled up for deck scrubbing and the like, he has sparrow legs, thin pin-like sticks. He’s built narrow o’ chest too, but he seems amazing strong for such a little fellow. He wears a beard of tiny curls, close to his face, and his hair is a thousand or more tight, springy curls clung to his head, though quite different looking to Hawk’s. He has deep-set eyes and most pleasing white teeth when he smiles.
This bloody ship is owned by a Rhode Island syndicate, all of ’em Quakers what have vowed it a ‘dry cask afloat’, meaning that grog ain’t permitted on board while she’s at sea. The past three months and sixteen days have been the worst of me life. Not a drop of grog has passed my lips. Any breach of this rule is punished most cruel, as we witnessed a week out to sea with Billy Lanney the victim.
Lanney, a regular crew member much experienced in the whaling game, come back on board ship in Hobart Town and brung with him a quart bottle of Cape brandy. He knew he would be punished if it were found, but he didn’t care. Sure enough it were found, by the first mate, Mr Crawlin Nestbyte. We were just three nights out to sea when he found Billy Lanney drunk as a lord, dancing a merry jig in the fo’c’sle and singing a bawdy ditty.
To my mind, the real tragedy of the whole affair is that only a quarter of the bottle were consumed before the first mate found out. The sentence would not have been a single stroke more had Billy drunk the lot, as I’d surely have done! In the presence of the lot of us, the rest of the precious brandy were poured overboard by the first mate, while me tongue stuck to the roof of me miserable mouth.
Nestbyte, like the master, is a Quaker and told us that the Lord in Heaven did not propose to show any mercy to the feckless black; nor should we expect any from the highest authority on earth. This authority turns out to be Captain O’Hara himself who, it seems, knows all about the will of God.
Five days later, at ten o’clock on Sunday morning, we be called on deck to hear Billy’s sentence. The captain, in best black cloth suit and white lace bibby, stands on the fo’c’sle to address us. Billy Lanney is made to stand before him, his hands clasped to his front and his head bowed as though in prayer. Nestbyte stands beside him with one hand on Lanney’s shoulder and the empty brandy bottle in his other hand.
‘The Christ within us lives in you all, because something of God exists in every man,’ O’Hara begins in a most reasonable voice. Then he says to Billy, ‘Even in thee, an ignorant savage.’ He turns to us and goes on, ‘In thee also, in every man here, there is the inward light if he should take it into himself and illuminate his heart in Christ Jesus’ name.’ He brings his attention back to Billy. ‘This inward light is a guide to us of good and evil, in thee and me. In thy case, Billy Lanney, I have sought to discover the Will of God by deliberation and by the illumination of that same light in me.’ The captain pauses and stares towards the topmast in a sort o’ holy-looking way. Then he fixes his eyes on Billy again. ‘It has been made clear to me by divine revelation that thou art to be most severely punished. Evil exists in all of us and we have witnessed it now in thee. In bringing strong drink aboard we have seen clearly the spirit of Satan confronting the spirit of the Lord Jesus Himself. It is written that thou shalt take no strong drink and thou hast disobeyed, and so this evil must be punished. Billy Lanney, whaleman on the good vessel Nankin Maiden, in the name of Our Lord Jesus Christ our Saviour, I pronounce sentence of one hundred lashes.’
There is a gasp from the crew, for a hundred lashes with the knotted rope be severe punishment. The captain then picks up a book what he explains to us is the articles of the ship. I can’t remember the exact words, but it more or less says that the Nankin Maiden be under the tender and loving care of the Lord Jesus and be therefore, according to the Holy Scriptures, ‘an empty vessel, to be filled with the Spirit of the Lord’. The Captain is responsible for interpreting the word of God in all matters requiring discipline and for delivering punishments with his own hand in the name of Christ Jesus, Amen.
This means he can punish Billy any way he likes. When they strips Billy naked and ties him to the mizzen mast, his back be so scarred from past floggings that the rope at first can’t cut through the flesh beneath. Billy don’t take no leather strap to bite down upon, and all the way through the terrible beating he don’t make no sound except a grunt as the wicked whip strikes him deep to flay the meat from his ribs and backbone.
When all’s done, the captain stands bent over with his hands clasped upon his knees, sweat pouring off and him panting like a bitch on heat. O’Hara wears a gold signet ring on his right hand with a flat top the size of a shilling. Now a piece of Lanney’s flesh is stuck upon it, so that it looks like it’s set with a large ruby.
There is smiles of wonderment among the crew at the way Billy’s taken his flogging. Some says that even if Billy be a black, never a braver man has put to sea, and all vows they would man a whaleboat with him any day o’ the week. This is rare praise on board a vessel where it’s every man for himself. The many languages the men gibber away in keeps ’em apart, and English is spoke only to give instructions, organise the whale hunt or give out punishment. But when the hunt is on, the six men who crew together in each of the four open whaleboats share a common destiny. They knows their lives to be in mortal danger and they stays close the better to survive. A crew member what’s shown his mettle is not forgotten and Billy Lanney’s courage under the captain’s lash will hold him in good stead. This be even more true after what happens when he is cut loose from the mast.
When they cuts Billy down he stands unsteady, with the blood running down his open back to his scrawny bum and forming puddles o’ crimson at his heels. Then he straightens, and faces out to sea, sniffing the air in great draughts. We watches silent, thinking that perhaps he’s about to jump, when from deep within him comes the howl of the wild Tasman tiger dog, a long, mournful sound that I’ve heard a thousand times at night in the wilderness. Two Irishmen immediately crosses themselves and others is astonished, not knowing what to make of the strange noise so foreign to the human voice.
Then Billy turns slowly to Captain O’Hara and gives him a most gentlemanly bow, pointing to the master’s white Quaker bibby which, with the rest of his blouse, is stained with Billy’s blood and flecks o’ skin. The black man gives a smile of tender sweetness and says, ‘God bless thee, Cap’n, you be washed in the Blood of the Lamb and forgiven.’ He says this in perfect English, which I ain’t never heard from him.
O’Hara gasps and takes a step backwards. ‘Blasphemy! Thou has
t blasphemed!’ he yells, shaking his finger at Billy. ‘A heathen savage hath taken the name of the Lord God in vain!’ He orders Billy tied back to the mast and hands the blood-soaked lash to Mr Nestbyte, who gives him another fifty lashes.
When they cuts Billy down this time he don’t howl like the tiger dog but stands at the ship’s rails and looks out to sea, his hands fluttering as though he’s trying to calm the waves. Then he turns to Nestbyte and points at him. ‘Plurry big fish come get you, Boss!’ He draws his finger slowly across his throat. ‘Aarrrrk!’ he says, like a man choking.
The crew moves back at this. Whalemen be superstitious by nature, but they knows this to be beyond mere fancy. Billy Lanney has put a curse on Nestbyte, right enough. Nestbyte turns away with a sick sort o’ smile on his gob. ‘Pagan nonsense!’ he spits. ‘God will punish you.’
Mary be right about religion. Them what’s given themselves over to it, and what pronounce upon the rest of us in Christ’s name, is more cruel than any other.
This is the first time since the age of eight years, when I were first made to tend Sam Slit’s whisky still in the wilderness, that I’ve been without me daily drink. It’s only today, fourteen weeks after I were took by Hawk from Brodie’s sly grog shop, that I be feelin’ the least bit better. The terrible sweats what come down upon me a day or two after I stopped drinking went away in two weeks and at about the same time, me gut settled down and me shit stiffened to normal. But the craving for strong spirits never stops. And yet, as I stands here on the cross-stays looking out for the whale, I be aware for the first time in many a year of the wind in me face, and the dancing of the white caps, like toy sailing boats stretched to the horizon.
The sky has clouded over since this morning when I climbed up the mainmast. What Hawk tells me in our lessons is cumulus cloud, now brooding against a grey horizon, has nudged aside the mare’s tails what stretched across the horizon when me watch began. The sun, up above the gathering cloud, beats down warm on me back and it’s excellent weather for a spotting of the whale.
Hawk and me ain’t yet witnessed a hunt, though we’ve been among the blue whales twice. We did not give chase as they’s too fast and strong to be harpooned. It is the sperm whale, the next largest in the sea, that we hopes to find.
I’m eating a bit more these days, though a whaler’s daily ration ain’t much good: hard biscuit what’s a weevil’s feast, a pound of salt beef or greasy pork or even horse, and two pound of plum duff on Tuesdays and Thursdays. This dreary lot is washed down with longlick, a mixture of tea, coffee and molasses, and three times each week a portion of lime juice for the scurvy. By decent folks’ standards, the food is pig’s swill, no man ashore ‘cept a starving beggar would touch it. Hunger got me in the end, and I suppose the dead cockroaches in the molasses adds to its taste well enough!
Fancy dreamin’ about eating possum stew again! It would be fair delicious right now, and the thought of a plump mutton bird split and flattened, then roasted on a fire of live coals, is enough to make me drool. I’d eat me own Sunday dinner as well as Hawk’s at Mary’s table, ‘cept she don’t want us there no more. But I can’t think about that, and anyway I’d give up every morsel of food on earth for a single snort of Brodie’s watered-down Cape brandy.
I’m a drinking man by nature, I know that now. From the very first taste of the hot whisky coming drop and trickle from the copper tubing of Sam Slit’s still, I knew I’d found me true love. I did not come to drunkenness from despair, though I haven’t said this to Hawk, what believes I am become a drunkard because of what happened to me in the wilderness. And without the whisky jug to fuel me through the bitter cold and rain of them days, the loneliness and the mongrels, I’d have surely died. But I sees it clear now— if I’d been born a prince, I’d still be a drunk. Now I’m just plain thirsty! Desperate for a drop!
I got a plan, though. I been collectin’ raisins from the plum duff. On good days, there be as many as twenty a serve, and in not too many weeks I’ll have a handy store. I’m gunna dry them and soak them, and then when I’m on galley duty, which is often enough, steal some of the yeast used for baking the skipper’s bread to add to ‘em. Sam Slit be of value to me at last! There were nothin’ that bastard did not know about the fermenting of grog and I reckon a tolerable good brandy will come from these raisins yet. Yours truly shalt not be denied his grog by these God-gobbing Yankees.
Hawk is much pleased that his little brother eats more now. He is patient and tender to me when I sulks, dreaming of the drink. In our spare moments, he teaches me to read and write again from books and a slate he brought aboard with him.
Hawk is a fine teacher to me. When he hears something it remains in his noggin forever after. He can remember each and every word spoken by Captain O’Hara when he pronounced sentence on Billy Lanney. He’s made me a copy of the captain’s sermon on his slate as a means of me learning to write again, which is why I can now recall it word for word. Hawk reckons I must write to be educated and read so me mind might be alive to the world beyond the inside of a brandy bottle. The fact that I don’t want to see nothin’ but the insides o’ that bottle don’t worry him! Anyways, Hawk likes to teach me and I likes to learn from him. And on board ship I finds out something else— I can be a great help to him too, translating his hand language to the other men, though they’s picking up a bit of it anyways.
Because Hawk is dumb, there’s many reckon him deaf as well, and they shouts and hollers at him, so that I needs remind ’em he can hear as well as they. But being mute, he can’t much talk to no one in his language save me, so we’ve asked to work together. To me great sadness, though, we ain’t allowed to man a whaleboat together because I were declared too small to row with the strength of t’other men. I fights back on this, as I’ve rowed since childhood and also on the Gordon and the Franklin when I were in the wilderness. But the fourth mate, Mr Seb Rawlings, takes one look at yours truly and that be bloody that! ’No whaleboat for you, lad,’ he says right off.
But with Hawk it were different. A week out to sea, Seb Rawlings set a whaleboat over the side with a crew including Hawk. This were to see if Hawk’s amazing size and strength would serve him well with the harpoon.
All of us what watched from the deck could see that Hawk were quite steady in the boat with the twenty-five-pound harpoon held above his shoulder, even though the sea were less than calm. A barrel with a white circle painted on it were cast from the whaleboat with a light line attached, and allowed to drift away, bobbing up and down amongst the waves. Hawk were then told to aim the harpoon at the barrel while standing full upright in the bow.
At first the crew laughed as Hawk launched the harpoon and were thrown on his back again and again, and once even up-ended into the sea. But Hawk don’t give up easy and with a little instruction, he soon improved.
By Hawk’s fifth outing, we watched as he threw the harpoon a good distance. He were most accurate too, often spearing the dot painted on the barrel and never so much as missing by more than the few inches allowable for the hunting of the sperm whale. Mr Rawlings pronounced himself satisfied and Hawk were appointed a standby— what sees that the whaleboat’s equipment be all ship-shape before launching and what can be called upon to crew if someone be ill or unable to take their place for some other reason.
It’s a terrible disappointment to me that I can’t hunt whale with me brother. Hawk ain’t happy neither, and makes me say this for him to the mate. Hawk tells Rawlings of me previous life as a timber getter, where I gathered strength in me arms and back. But Rawlings only laughs. ‘A whaleboat be no place for a boy of your size, lad. I would not have you on my conscience nor as a danger to the other crew.’
‘Tell him I’ll be responsible for you,’ Hawk signals to me with his hands.
I translates once again and Rawlings smiles thinly at Hawk. ‘Are you now the captain of my whaleboat?’ I can see his patience is sore tried and he dismisses us with a backward wave of his hand. ‘Go on now, be away wi
th you!’
So here I is, Tommo the brave, standing on two wooden rungs at the top o’ the mainmast on a two hour watch, searching for the spout of a whale but not allowed to join in the hunt. And me without a drink for one hundred and six days. If I does see a pod of whale, I’ve a good mind to look the other way. But that would be stupid. Two other men, one on each of the other masts, are also set to looking and the first to spot a whale receives a week’s extra rations. It’s food Hawk would relish, as he never seems to get enough to eat.
I’m forever worried about Hawk’s hunger and have set about trying to satisfy it with fishing. As little lads, before we was took, Hawk and me were good fishermen, but he lost the skill of it when Mary put him to book-learning and clerking, and then sent him to England to learn about growing hops.
Hawk still talks o’ London Town sometimes, though he sees it through different eyes to Ikey’s. He were in Kent, studying the art of agriculture, with little money. He’d pen letters for the farm workers, many of ’em Irish, Tipperary men and the like, wanting to send word to their colleens or dear parents at home. For sixpence a letter, he’d write the most tender love letters, though he knows nothing of love or women. His letters be so sweet the eyes of his customers would fill with tears, and it got so that before a note were dispatched, it would be read to the whole gathering for their enjoyment. So successful did Hawk become with his flowery phrases that most of his Saturday afternoons were spent in this pursuit, and it made him sufficient coin to go up to London Town by train of a Sunday.
With sixpence for a cup o’ tea and a sticky bun, and another for a pint of ale, Hawk would take the omnibus to the East End and Whitechapel, visiting all the places Ikey told us of. In our childhood dreams, London Town were a place o’ palaces and broad streets where everyone were a toff and Ikey much respected, a prince amongst men! Alas, Hawk found the palaces and grand houses but these was outnumbered a thousand to one by the hovels of the poor and unfortunate what crawled like ants in every dark corner. Yet these was the very places Ikey meant when he’d spoke to us of the throbbing heart o’ the great city.
Tommo and Hawk Page 5
