Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  Chief Tamihana keeps his expression blank, but it is some time before he responds. ‘Do you know that this is a name we can only give to a princess? How can I justify giving Tommo’s girl child the name of the Dawn Maiden, daughter of Woman Made From Earth? In our belief, to call a commoner or even rangatira thus would be blasphemy— unless she were, in her own right, a princess.’

  ‘I beg your forgiveness, Chief Tamihana. I did not wish to blaspheme against the ancestors.’

  Now the chief looks at me hard. ‘You knew this was not possible, Black Hawk, didn’t you? Why then did you ask me?’

  ‘It was a most foolish thing. I had no right,’ I say, feeling myself suitably chastised.

  ‘My friend, you are young, but you are not foolish. Is it because of the widow who came to you in the night?’

  ‘You know?’ My face grows warm.

  Tamihana nods slowly, then explains. ‘Wiremu Kingi asked me why you seemed reluctant to take a woman. If you were to be killed, he did not wish you transported to your ancestors still a virgin. I told him I wished the Maori woman you took to be from the Ngati Haua but he said that while he was responsible for you, she should be from the Ati Awa.’ Tamihana laughs, then shrugs. ‘Ever the peacemaker, I suggested that she be from another Maori tribe, so that we need not quarrel. To this, the old chief agreed. But we wanted to be sure that this woman from another tribe was no less worthy than our own wahine, so we asked for a certain princess who is the young widow of a great warrior. She was ready to enter life again, to be made noa.’

  I try to conceal my anxiety at my next question. ‘If I should wish to find her again, would you tell me how?’

  Tamihana shakes his head. ‘It is a matter best left alone. We shall find Tommo and then you will leave for Australia.’

  I know I should not persist but cannot help myself— the thought of lying with the widow princess again clouds my judgment. ‘My chief, I have a great yearning for Hinetitama in my heart. Will you help me?’

  Tamihana thinks for a moment, his eyes cast down, then he raises them slowly to mine. ‘I will make a bargain with you, Black Hawk. You have two choices: you may find Tommo and leave for Australia. Or you may have this woman and the children she will bring you and stay with us. You cannot have a Maori princess and leave the tribe. Will you forsake your brother for her? You must choose.’

  I look to Wiremu Tamihana and hope the distress I feel does not show on my face. ‘There is only one possible answer. It must be Tommo. Will you send Hammerhead Jack to find him before much harm comes to him?’

  The chief nods slowly. ‘He will leave within the hour, and he will be in Auckland long before Tommo arrives on foot.’

  It is a day later when I am summoned to the marae. I arrive to find many of the rangatira and the tohunga already assembled. I have no notion of why Chief Tamihana has called this meeting, unless it is to tell them of my leaving.

  I take my seat, hoping that at some point I may be allowed to ask for a good burial for Makareta. It is my wish she might be given some small honour in her death for the sake of her mother and Tommo. Despite my pleas, I have not been allowed to see Tommo’s newborn child because of the tapu created by her mother’s death and Tommo’s presence at her birth.

  ‘We are here today to discuss the business of a girl’s name,’ Chief Tamihana announces.

  There is a murmur of surprise among the rangatira and the tohunga. I myself am in some shock. Tamihana pauses for a few moments before turning to speak directly to me.

  ‘Black Hawk, we have heard that Chief Wiremu Kingi has taken one of your ancestors, Icky Slomon, to sit among their own ancestors. Is this so?’

  I stand, though I am too nervous to look into the chief’s face. ‘It is true, Chief Tamihana. My brother and I have been greatly honoured by the Ati Awa, who have declared our ancestor Ikey Solomon to be worthy to sit among their ancestors.’

  ‘And did you not explain that this Icky Slomon is of the tribe of Israel and directly descended from the great King Slomon himself?’

  Chief Tamihana is missionary-taught and knows more of the Bible than I. He will most certainly be aware that King Solomon is an ancient King of Israel who can hardly be claimed as our direct ancestor.

  I stammer slightly as I try to explain. ‘Yes, I told Wiremu Kingi that King Solomon was a great and noble king of the tribe of Israel. It is also true that the name Solomon is given to the descendants of the great king.’

  ‘You talked of the black queen, the Queen of Sheba, and of how King Solomon also took her and folded her into his blanket? And in this way, you explained how Tommo has come to be white while you are black? A white king and a black queen and ever after, the generations to come, both colours spawned?’

  ‘That was the understanding of Chief Wiremu Kingi,’ I reply, wondering at what point he will denounce this unlikely tale.

  But instead Tamihana turns to the gathered assembly. ‘As I have long suspected, both Tommo and Black Hawk are in their own right descended from a royal house. We of the Ngati Haua should recognise this along with our brothers from the Ati Awa.’ Tamihana is playing along with my story of our lineage! He smiles at me. ‘Black Hawk, we too would wish to honour your ancestors. It is only right that we should do so.’

  I hear a general hum of approval amongst the rangatira. Finally Chief Wiremu Tamihana puts up his hand to signal silence and when the assembly is once again quiet, he makes his announcement.

  ‘Two nights past, Tommo’s wahine gave birth to a girl child. The mother has died in childbirth and there is only a grandmother to care for the newborn infant. Her paps are dry and so I have decided this child should come into my household.’ He smiles. ‘My women grow lazy and fat. They shall be happy to care for the infant.’

  I can see that the elders are curious as to why Wiremu Tamihana would even speak of this women’s business, and the chief responds.

  ‘I talk of this because we have not hitherto acknowledged the true status of Black Hawk and his brother Tommo and must now do so in the naming of this girl child.’ Tamihana gazes about him for several moments. ‘I am ariki and have communed with the dead on this matter and the ancestors have found a way. They would like this child to be named Hinetitama.’

  All this is so very neatly put by Tamihana that there is only a short discussion about it and this mainly by the tohunga, who search for a precedent in ceremony which they might use to help fulfil this request. Ten minutes later they nod their assent to the chief. Tommo’s daughter is to be called Princess Hinetitama Te Solomon and her ancestral claim to this title is to be the great King Solomon of the tribe of Israel. The Ati Awa ancestors may have gained the services of Icky Slomon but the Ngati Haua have acquired a royal princess of impeccable lineage.

  I am again overwhelmed by the kindness of this great chief, and my words cannot express the gratitude I feel for the honour he has bestowed on Tommo and me.

  Chief Wiremu Tamihana then talks briefly of our wish to leave and explains that he will help us to gain passage on a boat to Australia. This news is received with the greatest regret by all. Several of the rangatira make speeches asking me to reconsider. Even the tohunga are most cordial for once, and the oldest among them expresses the wish that Tommo and I remain within the tribe when we depart.

  ‘We shall always consider you Maori, for no Maori warrior could have honoured us more,’ Chief Tamihana concludes. ‘Black Hawk, in the name of our ancestors we salute you and wish you a safe journey across the sea. Our spirit goes with you always.’

  I am once more overcome with emotion. I have nothing but love for the Ngati Haua, who have shown Tommo and me such care. I fear we shall never repay the debt we owe them.

  I stand to address the chief and the elders. ‘Chief Tamihana and all of the Ngati Haua tribe, you have been my brothers in peace and in war. Your counsel and wisdom have turned me from a callow youth into a grown man and as long as I live I shall cherish you in my heart.

  ‘I would like to commend
to you the man who first brought us here, Hammerhead Jack. I know that I am less a man, with both eyes and both arms, than he is with only one of each. I shall honour his name and his tribe as long as I have voice to speak of them. I know that if my brother Tommo were here he would say the same.

  ‘We have left behind a girl child, the Princess Hinetitama Te Solomon. She is proof to you all that we love and honour your tribe and I hope that we may return one day. I ask that you keep a place on the marae, for my brother and me, where we may sit with pride among the rangatira and the tohunga. I request most humbly that you keep our name and our lineage on the lips of your old women so that the Princess Hinetitama will learn of us and know that we left her with the people we loved.’

  Much applause follows, until Tamihana holds up his hand for silence. ‘Black Hawk, the women wait outside to sing and they have asked for a message to carry in your honour in some future song they wish to compose in your memory.’

  I am close to tears and when the words come, they are the best I can manage. ‘May you find peace and hold your land safe and secure for your children. Keep forever your pride in yourselves. I pray you do this in the name of your ancestors and your children yet unborn and their children.’

  I bow to Chief Tamihana. ‘I leave you knowing that whatever happens in my life, my spirit will always dwell among the great Maori people. Farewell, beloved friends. Until I return, I shall carry you in my heart always.’

  We leave the marae and are soon surrounded by a great host of women who, except for the very foremost, are too close-packed to dance the poi. As we emerge they commence to sing a haunting lament and I am at once flooded with tears.

  Chapter Thirteen

  TOMMO

  The Land of the Long White Cloud

  July 1860

  All I can think of is the black bottle. I doesn’t think of Makareta or even our baby. It be too hard. I must remove Makareta from me head for I can’t bear the sorrow. I got to drown it, kill it, make it go away before it takes a hold o’ me. There is only one way I knows to do this, the black bottle. It’s the Cape brandy for yours truly.

  That’s all I think of as I leave Tamihana’s village. Even Hawk ain’t in my mind. I can’t think of anything or anyone what might stop me from getting a drink. My head hurts most terrible from the gun wound, and I don’t care if I lives or dies. I think I’m goin’ mad.

  I pass several Maori on the road what greet me and seem to know who I am, but I don’t care enough even to reply. I walk for hours before I even think about where I might be headed or what might happen to me if I’m recognised by a pakeha. I wears a blanket and sandals in the fashion of the Maori and would seem most odd to any white man what looks at me for more than a moment. It’d be stupid to go to a small town where I’d be recognised before I even gets a drink, and so I decides to push on to Auckland, where I can more easily disappear into a grog den or one-shilling hell.

  I ain’t felt the slightest hunger, me stomach craves only spirits, and there’s a great gnawing at me guts. But by evening I knows I has to eat or I’ll never reach me destination, the black bottle.

  I stops in at a Maori village what I know ain’t on the side o’ the British as some ‘round these parts are. It seems they don’t know me, thank Christ. But I speak their language, obey their customs and wear their clothes and charms, and so they accept me. I ain’t the first pakeha to take up the Maori style o’ living and they are a generous-natured people. After feeding me they ask if I want a hut for the night. But I’m used to sleeping rough and now that I’m fed, I’m anxious to keep going. There is a clear sky for once and a bright moon, and no bitter cold wind blowing from the south.

  On the morning of the second day I comes upon settlers twice. The first I sees is a lone man with a horse and dray, piled high with cabbages. The other is a man with his wife and family and all their worldly possessions packed on a bullock cart. I hides meself off the roadside as they pass by.

  My head has cleared somewhat, and I realise that I can’t enter Auckland dressed as a Maori and hope to sit down to a game o’ cards. I should have bailed up the cove in the cabbage cart and swapped me clobber for his, though he were dressed as a farm labourer, a poor enough outfit for a man seekin’ a game o’ poker in the city.

  Towards evening I spies a farmhouse set back from the road. The weather is fine but will soon enough close in, as it does most nights, and I need to find shelter. I’ll watch the house and if the chance comes up, get inside and find me some pakeha clothes.

  I follow a small stream up to the farmhouse and find a spot from where I can see the comings and goings of the farm folk. Sure enough, I soon see two lads bringing in half a dozen cows. For one terrible moment I thinks of the two lads we killed. I remember how me darling Makareta used to comfort me in the nights when I were sick at heart with meself. When I’d wake affrighted, having dreamt of the wilderness again. But I must put Makareta out o’ me head. From now on, it’s just Tommo on his own again. I looks more closely at the lads. One is near me size, dressed in rags, and the other’s smaller, perhaps three years younger, nine or ten years old. The house is neat and well kept with a bit of a vegetable garden at the back. They looks like poor but respectable folk, probably church-goers, and if so the elder might have a change o’ clothes for Sunday best what could fit.

  I starts to make me plans. Cows need milking in the early morning, requirin’ all hands on deck. If there’s a missus about then she’ll be in the barn not long after dawn to see to the churning, and so the house will stand empty. The boys and the cows are followed by two border collies what might prove a nuisance. But dogs usually follow their masters and will no doubt be at the milking shed in the morning too for a dish o’ milk or curds. The barn is upwind of the farmhouse and so they’ll not scent me, and I reckon I can slip in from the back without being seen.

  Shortly after I see the farmer coming in on a huge plough horse, the sort I’ve heard called Percherons. He’s seated on its back without saddle or harness, a stout fellow, not too tall, though it be hard to judge with him sitting so high on the beast. Perhaps his Sunday best would suit me better than the lad’s. Then a woman comes out the back o’ the house and yells at the two lads to come in for tea. I reckons I has the family just about complete as there don’t seem to be no farm labourers about.

  I spends the remaining light exploring the creek, what I crosses so the dogs will not pick up me scent. The brook leads to a small river and ‘round a bend I discover an eel weir and with it a nice fat eel in a basket-trap. I gather dry timber, what makes only a little smoke, and I cook the eel under the shade of a tree what will help hide any signs of a fire. With a full stomach I goes back and builds a snug hide, well concealed, from where I can easily see the farmhouse. I’m hardly inside it when the rain comes down and darkness falls.

  Some squabbling tuis wakes me at dawn. This be most fortunate because next I sees the farmer’s wife carrying two silver buckets towards the barn, the dogs yapping at her heels. Her two sons follow behind, and then the farmer himself comes out, scratching his bollocks and sneezing twice. I wait for another sneeze but it don’t happen and I wonder if this be an omen or something. Gawd, I thinks, I’m becoming a flamin’ Maori, looking for signs and portents in everything. I waits several minutes before removing me sandals and wading through the freezing water of the creek towards the house. A thin mist hangs low over the paddocks and the air smells of more rain to come as I creep towards the farmhouse.

  The kitchen door be open, o’ course, and there’s a small fire on the hearth. I smell a stew and am half-tempted to help meself. But I press on into the main bedchamber, where I finds a large brass bed, a cupboard and a timber chest against the far wall. I am drawn to the chest and open it—only to find within it a wedding dress, careful folded away. Again I thinks o’ Makareta, and that we might have been wed. Then I kills the thought quick and tell meself I has no interest in wedding dresses. I am about to close the lid on the chest and the picture it
brings to me mind, when I thinks to look a little further. Beneath the wedding dress, to me great delight, is a suit of brown tweed, smelling of camphor. I pull it out and find it’s an almost perfect fit. I can only guess it were the wedding suit of the farmer before his wife’s cooking helped him to his present size. I thinks again o’ the soup, what smells delicious, but I can’t draw attention to meself by taking a bowl.

  I place the wedding dress back as I found it, and close the chest. In the cupboard are three blouses hangin’ upon a single peg. I takes the third what’s hid behind the other two. It will do well enough, for it is made o’ wool and has scarce been mended. Under the bed I finds a sturdy pair of well dubbined boots.

  It will take until the Sabbath for the farmer to discover the loss of his boots and blouse, and months or years before he finds his wedding suit is missing. I am now possessed of a complete outfit. I am out the house in a flash with me booty under me arm and am halfway across the first paddock before I remembers a hat. Shit! I can’t walk around with me head wound showing, and the Maori cap I wears won’t look right with the pakeha clothes. I race back to the house.

  In the small front parlour I find an old felt hat on the wall. It be too big for me and falls over my eyes but I am glad, as it will cover me wound without pressing down upon it. My heart is banging like a tom-tom as I flee across the paddock to me secret spot.

  Long before the sun’s climbed up in the sky, I’m back on the road in me new outfit. I has hid me sandals and Maori fighting axe in me blanket, and torn my old tattered blouse to make toe pads. These I stuff into me new boots so that they fits better. I does the same to the inside brim of my hat, leaving a small space so me wound can breathe and the lining don’t rub against it. The suit fits well enough and, though the blouse is too big, I has it tucked in and bunched and knotted at the back.

  I could hardly have done better for meself. The suit proclaims me a bumpkin well enough, but not one without resources. A yokel come to the city to chance his luck or spend his butter-and-cheese earnings on matching his skill at cards. There is a soft drizzle to the day but the tweed’s thick and will keep the damp out. I strap me blanket roll to me back and it’s away to Auckland for old Tommo.