Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  There is a rumbling among the crew and some nods their heads. ‘Aye, they be with us,’ several call.

  ‘Quiet!’ calls Hollowtree, who ain’t said a word until this moment.

  ‘As a matter o’ fact, sir, along with several of the men here, we was at the Whaler’s Hotel at a late hour where we seen Captain O’Hara talking with some o’ the locals there. I assures you, Mr Rawlings, sir, he were hale and hearty at the time we left to return to the ship!’

  ‘Aye!’ several of the men shout at once. ‘That be God’s truth! We’ll swear to that!’

  ‘Well then, what be this?’ Stubbs shouts, holding aloft me kindling axe!

  Hawk gazes at me in shock. It’s a surprise to me too, but I quickly explains.

  ‘Joshua Stokes, who were the watch, will be my witness that not ten minutes after me and Hawk come aboard from shore, I reported me axe stolen, sir. It were took from the fo’c’sle where I has me things and it were gone when we returned.’

  Stokes steps forward. ‘Aye, sir, that be right. The lad did address me on this matter!’

  Stubbs steps two paces towards the mast and lifts the small axe and fits it to a deep cut within the wooden mast some four inches below Captain O’Hara’s hand. The axe head sinks a full inch into the stout timber and fits snugly, so that Stubbs may leave it there. ‘It were discovered here this morning at daybreak!’ he says accusingly.

  ‘Find who put it there and you has the man what stole it, sir!’ I shrugs.

  Now Hawk speaks beside me. ‘I should be most grateful to have it returned to my brother, Mr Stubbs, sir!’ he says in his gravelly voice. ‘This is a ship full of villains as may be clearly seen,’ he points to O’Hara’s severed hand. ‘I fear for Tommo’s safety unless he may defend himself!’

  The men falls to laughing uproariously so that the solemnity of the occasion is destroyed. There ain’t a man on board what’s sorry for the captain, nor for the blubber-room bully, Jenkins.

  ‘Shut thy trap!’ Stubbs shouts at Hawk and pulls me axe out from the mast. ‘Thou and thy brother be in this up to your necks!’

  ‘Which will soon enough feel the hangman’s rope about them!’ Rawlings adds. ‘There is blood on the blade! Human blood!’ He points at it and looks darkly at Hawk. ‘This is the second time human blood has been found on a blade of your doing. Last time it was Nestbyte’s knife. Now,’ he brandishes the axe above his head, ‘this!’

  The men grows silent. I should learn to shut me big gob, but Rawlings is after me brother and it comes out without me thinking.’ “I am not mocked, sayeth the Lord!”’ I say for all to hear.

  Well, Hawk and me is taken back to the dark hole, though it be plain to see the men ain’t happy that this should happen. But this is a whaling ship and they ain’t likely to mutiny over a spot of injustice, leastways for a sprat of a lad and a nigger. Most has been on board a full two years and the ship’s hold is near full with oil. Besides, with O’Hara’s hand lopped off, they probably think they will return to Massachusetts. There ain’t a man among them what would sacrifice his share of the lay even if our lives be in certain danger.

  As soon as we is back in the dark, Hawk ticks me off. He is fit to be tied, and I’m glad I cannot see his face and that his voice is not strong so that he must often rest as he shouts. But he grabs me arm with his manacled hands and shakes me ‘til I thinks he will rip me shoulder out. My lip is bleeding from biting back the pain.

  ‘Tommo, you are a damned fool! We are done for!’

  ‘No! They got nothin’ on us. We was locked in, snug as a bug in a bloody rug, here in this dark hole!’ I protests.

  ‘Your axe! They will say you gave it to the Maori! Don’t you see, we are implicated!’ Hawk yells again, his throat raw and hoarse. For a moment I wish he never got his voice back.

  What he says is true enough, though. I did give me axe to the Maori when I told them where they might find Jenkins and O’Hara. But they agreed it should be thought they’d pinched it. I did not think they would return it.

  ‘Tommo, my people will kill O’Hara,’ Hammerhead Jack said to me several days before we reached New Zealand.

  ‘No!’ I tells him. ‘We must cut off his hand!’

  He pauses, thinking, then frowns. ‘Why we not kill him?’ he asks, puzzled.

  ‘He’s no warrior, he’s a coward!’ I says. ‘He must live with the memory that he’s a coward and a mongrel!’

  ‘What is mong…ril?’

  I don’t try to explain, though perhaps I could have done for I has learnt a bit of the Maori tongue. Instead I says, ‘Every time O’Hara lifts his arm, he’s gunna remember that he cannot steal from a Maori, nor beat him when there is no just cause.’

  ‘Nigger, too! He cannot beat Ork!’

  ‘Yes! He must be punished for he is a mongrel!’ I says again.

  ‘Ha! Mongril!’ Hammerhead Jack says. ‘Mongril!’ He sounds the word and seems to like the taste of it. Then he picks up me axe with his good hand. I were using it to gut a tuna when he comes upon me on the aft deck. He takes the axe head in his huge paw and tests the edge with his thumb, drawing a thin line of blood. He whistles in admiration, for I keeps it sharp as a barber’s razor.

  ‘Your hand has held this axe, Tommo,’ he says in his own tongue. ‘You must give it to us so a Maori hand may hold it when we find this mongril. This way we will share the pleasure of our utu with you and Ork!’

  ‘You can have me axe, Hammerhead Jack!’ I says, excited. ‘But don’t tell Hawk!’

  Hammerhead Jack shakes his head and laughs loudly. ‘Ork good! Not tell Ork!’ he replies in English. He holds the axe in his hand as though weighing it. ‘It has your mana, it will come back with this mongril’s blood upon the blade, Tommo.’

  I can’t say I didn’t know what would be done with my axe, but when Hammerhead Jack nailed O’Hara’s hand and fingers to the mast, he did so without me knowing. It were an act of incredible bravery what I greatly admires. I can see it were done in order that Captain O’Hara would forever know that it were the Maori what had wreaked their vengeance upon him. Tommo’s ‘mongril’ has been punished at last.

  I also know that Hammerhead Jack returned me axe thinking that, because it were reported stolen, the blame for what had happened would be placed squarely at his feet. Hawk and I would be innocent even if we was under suspicion, the axe the final proof that the Maori alone were guilty.

  Now, with Hawk shouting at me, I realise that Hammerhead Jack is a warrior and don’t give a fig for the British coming after him. I’d be surprised if he’d gone after O’Hara himself, though. He is too intelligent, and still too weak to take on the captain or Jenkins with only one hand. One of the other Maori must have done it and now that they has escaped back to their people, the law would have trouble finding the culprits amongst the tribe.

  Hammerhead Jack would know little of the law, caring only that me axe, me mana, be returned to me and that his beloved Ork be safe. It takes some hours to convince Hawk o’ this, and he still ain’t completely happy with yours truly. But I think he is slowly coming to the view that British law would never have helped us out in New Zealand.

  ‘Besides,’ I point out, ‘when Hammerhead Jack said he did not trust in the law you said nothin’. I thought you knew the bastard would get away with it and I wouldn’t have the opportunity to keep my vow.’

  Hawk stays silent and I think perhaps I have him. Then he speaks quietly. ‘I have it written down, Tommo. Every word O’Hara said to us, every syllable. Sooner or later he would have come to port in Hobart Town and, with Mary’s help, I would have him in front of the governor and brought to trial!’

  I’ve learned something new about me brother. He is patient and has a long memory. ‘Will you do so now? Now that O’Hara has lost his hand?’ I asks.

  Hawk gives a short laugh. ‘You may be damned sure of that! I shall make the law work for small men as well as those who have influence. If we do not force the judge or the magistrate to do his d
uty then we cannot complain that we are hard done by. Poor men should have fine lawyers too!’

  ‘Ha! And how’s your penniless beggar gunna find such a lawyer?’

  ‘We will build a land where Mistress Justice is once again blind, the way she is supposed to be. Alas, she has long since seen her blindfold removed so that she now judges those who supplicate in front of her by the cut of their clothes, the base or haughty accent on their lips, and the depth of their purse.’

  I shakes me head in the dark. He’s got his voice back, all right. How on earth can I make this big nigger see that he tilts at windmills?

  It is late in the afternoon when, with a rattle of keys, we is brought once again on deck and handed into the custody of two police constables. Though we asks why we are arrested, not a word is spoken. The men gather around and there is some protest, but finally all our worldly goods is thrown into a whaleboat and we is rowed ashore. The only words spoken is by one o’ the four oarsmen what stand on the shore as we is led away. It is one o’ the Irishmen. ‘God bless ya, lads! Don’t let the bastard British grind yer down, keep yer Irish up, yer hear now!’ he shouts.

  This morning the gaoler comes in to see us. It is the first time we’ve spoke though we has been here a week. He is a big man dressed in a uniform much the worse for wear, with most of his recent breakfast on its front. He looks like a walrus, with a ragged ginger moustache and no beard, and his whisky-pocked and bloated nose is like a polished plum planted in a hairy red nest. His cap sits askew on his head, with hair like the straw of an old scarecrow poking out. His eyes are dull as raisins and his ears large and bright scarlet where the light shines through them. This is a deep-drinking, thirsty man, if ever I seen one.

  ‘Mornin’, lads,’ he says in a mournful tone.

  ‘Mornin’, Sergeant,’ we replies, standing up with a clanking of chains.

  ‘Nottingham’s the name, but not the sheriff o’ Robin Hood fame.’ If this be a joke it comes out flat. ‘Best stand to attention,’ he says, and we brings our feet more or less together.

  ‘Well then, lads, you’re off to Auckland,’ he goes on. ‘Your vessel be there now, sailed two days since with your one-fisted skipper aboard.’ He looks up at Hawk. ‘You’re a big fella, ain’tcha? Nearly as big as Hammerhead Jack.’ He scratches his chin as though he’s thinking. ‘Now there’s a big fella in more ways than one, what say you?’

  ‘He’s a big fellow, very tall,’ we mumbles without much enthusiasm.

  ‘Big trouble-maker, too! Can’t say I’m glad he’s back. Been in the wars, from all appearances. Whale got him, was it?’

  Hawk nods.

  ‘Dangerous big fellas, whales. But not as dangerous as big black fellas, eh? What do you know of the savage?’

  ‘Who?’ we both says.

  ‘Hammerhead Jack,’ he says. ‘What know you of this hand-lopping affair?’

  Hawk speaks to me with his hands, though he does not look at me as I read them. ‘Watch him carefully.’

  I nods me head as though I am listening to Nottingham and then reply in sign language, ‘Drinking man!’

  ‘What say you then of this affair?’ the Sheriff o’ Nottingham asks again.

  ‘Nothing. We know nothing, sir,’ I answers quickly.

  He points a stubby finger at me. ‘You the one with the axe?’

  ‘Axe, sir?’

  ‘You know! The weapon what did the dastardly deed!’

  ‘I’m sure I don’t know what you means, sir. Does you mean did I own the axe?’

  ‘Aye, and use it!’

  ‘Use it, no. It were stole from me and used elsewhere by persons unknown.’

  Our gaoler spins around, amazing quick for such a stout cove, and sticks his same podgy finger into Hawk’s chest. ‘And you be the one who murdered the first mate, ain’tcha!’

  ‘Oh,’ I says, quick and cheeky. ‘All settled then, is it? We be guilty, is that it?’

  ‘Would be if I had me way. Take you out the back, string you up the nearest tree together with the big Maori and call it a damn good day’s work! One of each kind of villain, black, white and brindle, couldn’t be fairer than that now, could it? Shame you can’t just do it, these days.’

  ‘Well, I’m thankful for that,’ Hawk sighs softly.

  ‘Now it’s down to Auckland, magistrates on the bench growing haemorrhoids, jury sitting on their arses twiddling their thumbs and, when all’s said and done, probably the same verdict: hanged by the neck until you dies. Goin’ to Auckland be just a waste o’ time and taxpayers’ money!’

  ‘And Captain O’Hara, what about him, Sergeant Nottingham? Has you thought that he might be the real villain?’ I points to Hawk. ‘Ask me brother to show you his back!’

  Nottingham dismisses this with a toss of his hand. ‘Could be, could be. Quite possible. But it ain’t, see. ‘Cause it wouldn’t be right. Wouldn’t be the decent thing.’

  ‘What do you mean by that?’ Hawk asks.

  ‘It’s all about sides, ain’t it? Sides and ingredients! Yankee whaling ship skipper, Christian Quaker gentleman. That be one side. Ingredients on that side be a lopped-off hand.’ He stops and looks at us hard. ‘Four Maori, a nigger and a white man what carries a razor-sharp axe about his person. Ingredients here be the bloody axe what done the deed. That be t’other side.’

  ‘What about British justice in all of this?’ Hawk asks.

  ‘Justice don’t come into trials. White jury, Christian folk, or professed to be. Yankee whaling ships what come regular into port be good for business and ain’t to be discouraged under any circumstances. And like I said, Quaker Christian captain with a ship what’s a dry cask afloat, so the crew drink the port dry at top prices when they comes to land. That’s more commerce. This be the case for the plaintiff.’

  Nottingham sniffs and grabs his nose with his forefinger and thumb, wiggling it vigorously. ‘Maori and niggers known to be heathen savages what can’t see reason, don’t have no discipline, ‘less both be brought about by means of a good flogging before the mast. That be the case for the defence. What say you then, gentlemen o’ the jury, guilty or not guilty?’

  Nottingham says all this in a steady drone. Now he pauses and looks down at his naked big toe poking out of his broken boot. He wriggles it as though he’s surprised to find it there. Then he shakes his head slowly and squints up at us. ‘I might be a gamblin’ man, but I wouldn’t venture threepence on your chances. You be pushing wet dung uphill with a broken stick, lads. Best confess and be done with it, eh?’

  ‘You say you’re a gamblin’ man, sir?’ I asks.

  ‘Could be, could be,’ he sniffs through his tangerine moustache. ‘Depends, don’t it now?’

  ‘Play the flats, then?’

  ‘Been known to play a hand or two from time to time. Fancy yerself, does you? Didn’t your daddy tell you never to play cards with strangers?’

  ‘With friends? You play with friends?’ Hawk asks.

  ‘Poker, is it? Or whist?’ I butt in before he can answer Hawk.

  ‘Play the odd game in town now and then,’ Nottingham says, without answering my question.

  ‘What, in them one-shilling hells, full o’ chumps and whores? I’ll wager there’s not a decent game to be found in this whole town!’ I laughs.

  ‘Look, lads, you be in enough trouble, don’t go looking for no more. This town’s got a poker school what’s too rich for your blood!’

  ‘Aye,’ Hawk says, ‘most wisely spoken, Sergeant Nottingham. On the other hand, there could be a quid in it for you.’

  Nottingham looks at Hawk shrewdly. ‘Cost yer five sovs to sit in.’

  I whistle. ‘Five pounds!’ I has no idea if Hawk’s got this kind of money. I look at him, showing me surprise, but he signals she’ll be right. ‘That be a big game,’ I says to the Sheriff o’ Nottingham.

  ‘Too big for me, and I suggests too big for the likes of you mangy lot.’

  ‘If you can get my brother into the game, we’ll go fifty
-fifty, what say you?’ Hawk challenges.

  A greedy look comes into the gaoler’s eyes. ‘You’ve got five pounds to wager?’

  ‘Could be, could be! Depends, don’t it now?’ Hawk mimics him cleverly.

  ‘Fifty-fifty?’

  Hawk nods.

  ‘And if you lose?’

  ‘No onus,’ Hawk replies.

  ‘If we loses, you gets our confession signed, sealed and delivered. Feather in yer cap and all,’ I says.

  I can hear Hawk’s sharp intake o’ breath at this offer.

  ‘A feather in me cap, eh? A written confession?’ Nottingham removes his cap to show a bald, shiny red pate, spotted with bright brown freckles like stars in the night sky. Then he punches the inside of the dirty, misshapen cap with his fist. The crown flaps loose and three dirty fingers wiggle through the gap. ‘Even with a feather it ain’t never going to be much of a cap.’ He grins, showing gappy yellow teeth. ‘There’s no more promotion for Sergeant Nottingham, this be my final patch, my last station o’ duty!’

  ‘You mean, you’d rather have the money?’ asks Hawk, coming straight out.

  ‘What do you think?’ Nottingham grins.

  ‘Well,’ says Hawk, ‘what I think is that you think my brother and I will be condemned whether we are guilty or not, would that be correct?’

  Nottingham smiles a secret little smile and shrugs. ‘That’s about it, lads. Ain’t no jury in this land what’s gunna condemn your Captain O’Hara for a bit o’ Maori and nigger flogging.’

  I am impressed at how quick Hawk’s grasped the situation. Nottingham be a man what’s condemned by his own habits, a drinker and a gambler, and a failure at both. Shit! I thinks suddenly, that’s what Hawk sees for me! He sees Nottingham. He sees his desperation, his despair, in me future.