Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  Maple and Syrup are the best o’ the five players at the table and I lets them win from the others as well as me. But by the skin of me teeth I stays in the game. Finally it’s just the two of them with the money piled up in front of where they sit and me.

  It’s the same as Kororareka all over again. They ain’t learned nothing and I sets them up one at a time and cleans them both out with eight pounds snug in me pocket before midnight. After I’ve cleaned out Syrup, he asks if I’ll take his marker. I look at him sorrowful-like, ‘Mr Syrup, me pappy always said, neither a borrower nor lender be…for loan often loses both itself and a friend…and I wouldn’t want to lose your friendship, Mr Syrup. Hee-hee.’ Syrup gives a sickly sort o’ smile and then there were only Maple left, holding a couple of sovs in change. I think he’ll fold, call it quits, but he stays in the game and in two more hands, I’ve took the lot.

  I reach down and unstrap my blanket roll so I can get to my axe quickly if needs be. My head hurts terrible but I’ve done the whole thing without any relocation of the cards. I ain’t lost none o’ me skill over the years! I pick up me roll like it’s still strapped and put it under me arm.

  ‘Thankee, gentlemen, much obliged.’ I touch the brim of my hat to Maple and Syrup and bows, then does the same to the other three players what’s now sitting on the benches. ‘Come, Billy,’ I says. ‘Time fer some tucker.’

  Suddenly Maple is standing in front o’ me and Syrup to one side. ‘I’m sure I seen you somewhere,’ Maple says, pushing his finger into me chest.

  ‘From Wanganui is you, then?’ I says slow, but smiling like it’s a nice surprise. ‘Though I don’t recall havin’ seen ya.’

  I can see he’s trying to remember where he’s met me before, but his head is rum-fogged and it ain’t coming to him.

  ‘I think you’s cheated!’ Maple accuses me now, and jabs my chest again, this time hard.

  ‘Huh?’ I says, open-mouthed. ‘No, no! I’m a good Christian boy. Me pappy says…’

  But I don’t get no further, for Syrup has fastened on to me. ‘Outside, you!’ he says as Maple grabs my head under his arm.

  ‘What’s you mean?’ I yells. ‘I ain’t done nothin’ wrong!’

  But both of them is dragging me away, back up to the pub and then through the front room of the Scrimshaw. ‘Cheat! Cheatin’ at the flats!’ Maple yells to all what will listen. ‘Him and the fuckin’ black!’

  When he hears this, Syrup cries out, ‘Jesus Christ, now I remembers! Kororareka! The gaol, bloody Nottingham, you and the big nigger!’

  ‘Billy, scarper!’ I yell as Maple and Syrup throw me to the ground in the alley. There are whalemen tumbling out the door as fast as their feet’ll carry them to witness the beating I’m gunna get. This is the moment I’m waiting for. I’ve hung onto me blanket roll for dear life. I rise from me knees as they comes close, and Syrup takes a kick at me. I duck and his boot goes flying over my head so that he slips in the mud and falls on his arse.

  ‘Why, you bastard!’ he says, angry now. He gets quickly to his feet while the whalemen laugh at him.

  ‘He’s a crook, an escaped prisoner!’ Maple shouts and takes a swing at me. This time, the blow grazes the side o’ me poor old head and ear, knocking me down flat again. I can see Billy held tight by the landlord and one other bloke. I get back on me haunches and tear at the blanket. In a flash I has the fighting axe in my hands. Syrup swings a blow at me but I catch his wrist with the handle of my axe. Then I bring the flat head around and pat him polite-like to the chin and mouth. Suddenly there is teeth and blood flying everywhere. He drops to his knees, both hands held to his face. I slams him again to the side of the head with the flat of me axe, and he pitches face-first in the mud. He’ll see dicky-birds for some time after, I reckons.

  Maple roars and comes at me with his bowie knife, the eight inches of blade aimed straight at me gut. I swing the axe blade ‘round and knock the knife from his hand, taking the top of his fingers with it. Then I reverse with the butt and strikes him in the face. I feel his nose and cheekbone crunch. It’s all over in seconds and the crowd has drawn back, pushing against each other so that Maple and Syrup are alone in the mud at me feet, out cold, like a couple o’ stunned mullets.

  ‘That’s for me brother, ya rotten scum!’ I pant. With the handle of me axe I point to Billy Lanney. ‘Let him go, he be a whaleman! Come on, Billy, let’s get the hell out o’ this shit hole!’

  Several whalemen turns on the landlord and the other cove what’s got Billy, and they lets him loose quick.

  ‘He’s a whaleman! Plurry good!’ Billy shouts. ‘Me, too!’

  ‘And any of you what follows us,’ I point with my axe handle to Maple and Syrup, ‘you’ll get the same as them, ya hear?’ I pick up my blanket and sandals and begin to walk away. Then I stop and turn back to the crowd. ‘And I didn’t cheat! I wouldn’t insult meself cheating with shore scum like them two Limey bastards!’

  There’s a cheer from the whalemen in the crowd at this.

  Then someone calls out, ‘It be Tommo from the Nankin Maiden!’ and there’s a second cheer, this one louder. ‘Go, Tommo, we’ll see you clear!’ another whaleman shouts.

  ‘Plurry hell!’ says Billy, coming to me side. Then under his breath, ‘Tommo, we goes now, eh? Shit! Omegawd!’ and he breaks into a trot.

  ‘Don’t run, Billy!’ I grab his arm. ‘Walk like you’re not scared, then when we gets out o’ sight, we’ll run like the devil!’

  We get to the end o’ the alley and then take off, running as hard as we can away from the wharf. Soon we get to the outskirts of this miserable town. I stop, my axe and blanket and sandals feelin’ bloody heavy by now, and farmer Moo-cow’s shoes near killing me feet. Billy, who be fifteen years or more older than me, is well ahead. ‘Stop, Billy!’ I shouts. ‘We ain’t gettin’ nowhere!’

  Billy walks back to where I’m bent over, panting and dizzy, with my blanket and axe lying at my feet. There is something wrong. My head is now so painful from the running I am hard put not to cry out. The wound is bleeding, I think. I put me hand to me neck and my fingers come away bloody.

  ‘Ya know what gives me the shits?’ I says to Billy. ‘I just won eight pounds at poker and I didn’t even have time to buy a black bottle to drown me bloody sorrows!’

  I dig into me pocket and takes out three pounds. ‘Here’s your stake and a bit more, Billy.’ I add two sovs and ten shillings. ‘And here’s your share of the winnings.’ I am left with just over three pounds and can buy enough gallons o’ Cape brandy to keep me motherless for a week. ‘Cept there ain’t a grog shop left in this God-forsaken town I can go into without fear o’ being arrested.

  I hand him the money and am about to sit down to rest when I hears the sound of shouting coming towards us. They’re after us! ‘You leave me, Billy, go back to your ship! You ain’t done nothing wrong. Garn, scarper, mate, ‘fore it’s too late!’

  Billy shakes his head, ‘No, Tommo, me stay.’

  ‘Billy, piss off. Please, mate! You don’t want no part o’ this mess.’

  ‘You me mate, eh, Tommo.’

  ‘Billy, they’re gunna kill me when they finds me. You too! Garn, git!’

  Billy folds his hands across his chest. ‘Nah, me stay. Tommo, you plurry bleedin’ in ya head,’ he says anxious.

  It’s dark and I’m facing him. Me wound is to the back of my head, hidden by my hat. How the hell can he tell I’m bleeding? It’s his strange gift again. Now we hear the footsteps of them what’s chasing us. I look about for some place to hide, but the rain has stopped and it’s bright moonlight. There’s nothing but road and flat fields on either side, not even a ditch.

  I hear the call of a mopoke, followed by a plover. Me name’s yelled out, shattering the night’s calm. ‘Tommo!’ Then it hits me—the two bird calls is used among Tamihana’s axe fighters to signal danger to each other. Hawk sent ’em to find me. I start to laugh. ‘Bloody Hawk, he ain’t never gunna let me have a drink,’ I says
out loud and then my head hurts even more, and I begin to sob. ‘It’s too hard to be a bleedin’ drunk ‘round here!’

  Four Maori come around the corner. One of ’em can’t be mistaken—he’s near big as me brother with only one arm and hair what sweeps back like a hammer. I quickly rub away my tears.

  ‘Tommo, it’s me, Hammerhead Jack!’ the one-armed giant shouts. ‘Why do you run away? We are your brothers. We searched everywhere, we looked for two days. Did you kill those two pakeha?’

  ‘Nah, just messed their faces a bit and took a couple o’ fingers off one of them’s pullin’ hand.’

  Hammerhead Jack laughs. ‘We couldn’t hang around to look—too many pakeha.’

  ‘How’d ya know it were me what done it?’ I asks.

  Hammerhead Jack laughs again. ‘Maori women in the alley saw it all. Every wahine in town is looking out for you, man! One went to find us, the other stayed to watch and follow if you left the grog shop.’

  I look at my tweed suit. ‘But how’d they know it were me?’

  ‘Whores know everything. Your hair, Tommo, it’s cut Maori and your smell, they smelled you. You smell like Maori now!’

  ‘How’s Maori smell?’ I asks.

  Hammerhead Jack smiles. ‘On the whaling ship Maori smells no different, but in the village they smell different from the pakeha. It is the food. Besides, you spoke to them. How many pakeha do you think speak Maori?’ He looks at Billy. ‘Who’s this?’ Then he breaks into a broad smile. ‘Billy Lanney!’

  Billy steps forward and pats Hammerhead Jack on the chest. ‘Plurry good, plurry good, Hammer Jack, eh?’

  I laugh. ‘He’s had a few. Didn’t stop him running faster than me, though.’

  Hammerhead Jack claps Billy on the shoulder. ‘Billy good!’ he says, sort of absent-minded. Then he turns to me. ‘We must get you out, Tommo. You can’t stay here.’

  ‘I know that,’ says I. ‘Can’t get a drink here anyways!’

  ‘We’ve got a boat waiting,’ Hammerhead Jack points across the field on me left to the coastline, ‘not too far from here.’

  ‘What about Billy? Can’t leave him here. Could we take him back to his ship so he’s safe?’ I asks.

  ‘He can come,’ Hammerhead Jack says.

  So off we sets across the field what’s wet from the earlier rain and sown with rye about ten inches grown, so that we leave a dark stain as a trail for all to follow. One of the Maori has picked up my axe and blanket and is carrying it under his arm. I’m feeling more and more dizzy in my head.

  Soon enough we get to a path down a small cliff which leads onto a pebbly beach where several fishing boats are moored as well as a small ketch. The mooring is in a cove away from the main wharf, on the Maori part o’ the waterfront. Several Maori lads comes out from the shadows to greets us, yawning and knuckling the sleep from their eyes. Hammerhead Jack says something quiet to one of them. Three of ’em pulls a dinghy down to the edge o’ the water and Jack turns to Billy and tells him that two of the boys will row him back to the Cloudy Bay.

  Billy comes over to me. Swaying a little, he pats me gently all over to say goodbye. ‘Plurry hell, cheerio, top o’ the mornin’ squire, eh, Tommo!’

  Despite the pain in me head, I laugh. ‘Where’d you hear all that, Billy? That be proper toff’s language.’

  His footsteps zig-zag across the pebbled beach to the dinghy where the two Maori lads waits with their oars shipped. He climbs in, the lads steadying him. Two of the lads on the beach push the dinghy off into the harbour. Billy waves to me, then, with a great grin in the moonlight, he shouts, ‘Ikey Solomon, he give me my name in Van Diemen’s Land, he teach Billygonequeer speak English most good, my dears, omegawd plurry hell!’

  Chapter Fourteen

  HAWK

  The Tasman Sea

  July 1860

  We are on board ship, bound for Sydney, and Tommo is in a bad way. When Hammerhead Jack took him in the Maori trading ketch from Auckland, they sailed to the Coromandel. It was here that I met him and we boarded the topsail schooner Black Dog, under the command of Captain Joshua Leuwin.

  Of Tommo’s voyage from Auckland he remembers little. Not long after he was taken aboard by Hammerhead Jack he fell into a delirium. His wound had turned bad on the outside and his head was aching beyond endurance. He was soon lost in a fever, murmuring gibberish.

  Hammerhead Jack told me of their fearful voyage. The ketch was a decrepit old tub, one of the many derelict vessels replaced in Australia by steam. It was no doubt purchased by some errant Johnny strike-it-rich from Sydney who sailed it in fair weather across the Tasman to sell to the Maori, who can seldom afford a new vessel locally made.

  A head wind blew most of the way from Auckland, so that sailing the small ketch with its heavy flaxen sails was most onerous. The wind blew ceaselessly in the wrong direction and the boat punched into the waves, which marched forward in unending grey-green lines flecked with foam. The vessel lurched up and down from trough to crest, constantly leaning at twenty-five degrees away from the wind. The lee rail was often under water, a state of affairs which even for the hardiest man on board creates a great propensity for seasickness. Many lost the contents of their stomachs overboard, though the Maori are good rough-weather sailors.

  To all this was added the crew’s fear that Tommo’s illness had been caused by the spirits of the dead. They knew he had run away from the tribe but had no notion of why, and thought that he must be in breach of some commandment. They believed he was being punished by the atua or ghost—the spirit of a dead kinsman which enters one’s body and preys on some vital part. They would not approach him, nor touch anything he used, a dish or spoon or cup, for fear that he was tapu.

  Even Hammerhead Jack, who has sailed the seven seas and seen the ways of the world, suggested bringing the priests, the tohunga, to our ship in the Coromandel. He proposed to delay our sailing several days so that they might come to cast out the evil spirit which dwelt in Tommo. He was of the most serious opinion that the spirit residing in my twin’s head may have entered him through the arsehole of the dead soldier, whom Tommo had killed and then lain upon in the swamp.

  Though I have become Maori in many ways, I politely declined Jack’s kind offer, saying that I would nurse Tommo myself and seek further help when we reached Australia.

  ‘Ha, pakeha medicine!’ Hammerhead Jack snorted. ‘Tommo spent much money on O’Hara’s costly sulphur ointment, bought to heal our wounds, but what good did it do us? None!’

  I acknowledged his point here. Superstition among the Maori produces some bad, but much good comes from it as well. By ascribing the protection of the dead to the chiefs, the tribes confer upon them an authority which they might not otherwise possess. This has created a remarkable sense of law and order within the community, and a respect for one another’s property and rights.

  It is a respect scarce seen in European societies, where greed among the wealthy together with crime and violence among the poor cause such great misery. In these societies, too, little punishment is meted by the law when the powerful cheat the weak, and the threat of prison or the rope seems not to deter those who would practise violence for gain. Alas, I fear we shall never learn to live differently. Most of those who have settled these lands of New Zealand and Australia have suffered in their mother countries of England, Scotland and Ireland. The Cornish tin miner, the Irish peasant and the Scottish clansman—all driven from their ancient lands by rapacious masters—now drive the Maori and the Aborigine from their lands. It is as though each man must have his turn against the fellow below him in the pecking order.

  Somewhere, somehow, there must be some better system of justice which does not depend on superstition, religion or the rule of English law, for this last always favours the rich and powerful above the common herd. How this utopia might come about I cannot say, and who would help in this cause I do not know. As Ikey often opined, ‘The poor be like mangy strays who fight in the dust over a dry bone but cannot
think long enough to get together and raid the butcher shop, my dear. They may be relied upon to do as much to prevent an improvement to their circumstances as those who exploit their poverty and despair.’ But perhaps Ikey may be proved wrong and some sort of brotherhood of those who are exploited could be formed against those who exploit them.

  I confess myself too young and ignorant to know the answers, but the questions persist in my head and I shall not give up thinking upon their solutions.

  I have dressed Tommo’s head with sulphur ointment obtained from the skipper of the Black Dog, and have brought down his fever by placing poultices of vinegar upon his brow. Now, nine days out to sea, he is much improved, though he complains of headaches and constant nausea. His body has had a great shock and I can only hope that he will recover fully.

  In my own passage to meet the Black Dog I was most fortunate. The Ngati Haua tribe owns several small coastal traders, in addition to the one which was taken by Hammerhead Jack. Included amongst these is a somewhat larger boat, a gaff ketch which is the sole property of Chief Tamihana himself. It is the vessel most prized for coastal trade, a carvel built in Tasmania and constructed of Huon pine, which is renowned for its strength and its resistance to woodworm and rot. Some of these boats, which were built forty years ago, are said to be still as good as when they left the shipwright’s shed.

  The equal of this ketch is seldom to be found in Maori hands and it was a great honour when Tamihana insisted I be taken in his vessel to meet my brother. We sailed in comfort to our destination and I was not once troubled with seasickness.

  The Black Dog, on which we now sail, is of the best American design. Only ten years ago she worked as an opium clipper, making racing passages from Bombay to the Canton River. She has a long, low, narrow hull and the distinctive raked clipper bow. Her hull is curved back from the long bowsprit in a reverse curve to the waterline.

  She is painted black with a red strake and black masts. Never was such a fair ship more badly named. Though I confess myself romantic, should I own such a vessel with its great spread of billowing canvas, I would call her Black Butterfly.