Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  Alas, there is little of the romantic about Captain Leuwin. He looks upon me with a most jaundiced eye and addresses me as though I am a nigger matelot. Of Tommo he has no opinion whatsoever and I do not believe he has said a word to him since we sailed. He has encouraged the four other Europeans aboard, the three mates and the bosun, a rough-looking lot, to act in the same truculent manner towards us. We are expected to sleep and eat with the crew and to draw the same rations. Luckily, because the voyage across the Tasman is a short one, these rations include some fruit and vegetables and, for the first three days, fresh meat.

  I had greatly looked forward to talking with the officers aboard. It has been over three years since Tommo and I went to live with the Maori and there is much news to be caught up on and a thousand questions to ask. Instead I have made friends with the ship’s hands, who are an odd assortment of Maori and Pacific folk from the Loyalty, Caroline and Marshall Islands. The Black Dog trades copra and cuts sandalwood for the Chinese market from all of these tropical ports, though our cargo at present is kauri timber from Arotorea destined for Sydney.

  There is something strange going on amongst the men, which I cannot fathom. At the conclusion of each meal, Tommo and I are made to come on deck and remain there for an hour with one of the ship’s officers standing beside the hatch to ensure we do not venture below decks. Even on the first three days, when Tommo was gravely ill and his mind wandering, Captain Leuwin insisted that I leave him below alone while I stood on deck. Despite all my protests, I would be kept on deck for an hour before being allowed back into the fo’c’sle to care for him. As soon as Tommo was conscious again, he was required to accompany me on every such occasion.

  When I asked Leuwin why this was necessary, the captain replied that the crew had work to do, adjusting and lashing timber which had shifted in the hold, and that it was too dangerous for us to remain below. I knew this to be untrue. The crew made me realise this, for they avoided my gaze whenever they spoke, and I knew they were afraid to tell me the truth, whatever it might be.

  We are expected to reach Sydney tomorrow, where I shall be most grateful to disembark. With the heavy timber cargo it will have taken us a full ten days at sea to reach our port. There has been little of interest to break the boredom of our voyage beyond the daily noon sightings to determine our course and the twice daily streaming of the log to gauge our speed. Even though I have offered to help with duties on board, I have been refused. At least the voyage so far has been a smooth one, free of winter storms. The greatest blessing is that each day Tommo grows stronger, and his headaches have grown less severe, sometimes vanishing altogether for an hour or two.

  I am not sure how Chief Tamihana persuaded Captain Leuwin, a man of immense ill humour and impatience, to remain an extra three days in harbour so that we might be taken aboard. He may have offered him money but I suspect he recalled some past favour that needed to be repaid. Whatever his method of persuasion, Leuwin does not feel obliged to be courteous towards his two passengers. He summons us on this last evening to the wheelhouse and says that, if the weather holds and the wind persists fair, we shall be coming into Sydney Harbour in the early part of the morning.

  ‘You will please leave my ship immediately the gangplank is lowered. You will oblige me by not talking of me, nor making reference to your passage under my care. If I hear that you have spoken to anyone of this, I shall report you to the authorities. Do you understand me?’

  ‘And what is it you shall say of us to them, Captain Leuwin?’ I ask, curious to find out how much he knows of Tommo and me.

  ‘Aye, there is always something,’ he snorts. ‘Chief Tamihana said naught about you two, not even giving your names.’ The captain stabs a stubby finger at my belly. ‘That can only mean there is much to conceal!’

  ‘I will tell you anything you wish to know, Captain Leuwin,’ I offer.

  ‘No thank you very much. I shall mind my own business and thank you to mind yours.’

  ‘But we have nothing to conceal from you,’ I persist.

  ‘Ha! What do you take me for? You introduce yourself as twins, you taller than a bloody lamp post and broad as a barn and him, no bigger than a sprat. You, black as the ace o’ spades and him, white. You both call yourself Solomon, which is a Yid’s name. What do you take me for? A black Hebrew and a blue-eyed one?’

  I shrug. ‘It is the truth.’

  ‘Truth, is it? Well if that be the truth, then we’ll have no more of the same. I’ll thank you to shut your black gob and not to include any further truth about your voyage on the Black Dog.’

  Tommo, whilst in his delirium, often cried out for Makareta. Now that he is well again, though, he has not once mentioned her death or even spoken her name. He responds only with a nod of his head when I tell him of his daughter and her adoption into the household of Tamihana. I try to recount the tactics employed by our mentor Tamihana to persuade the tohunga and the rangatira to accept the child’s name as Hinetitama, thus elevating her to high status within the tribe. To my regret, he shows no interest. His mind is closed, wandering, and he is once again the sad Tommo who came back to us from the wilderness.

  ‘But she is your daughter, Tommo!’ I venture, gently as I can.

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Hinetitama!’

  ‘Oh…yes,’ he answers vaguely. ‘Why did you not call her Mary?’

  I despair. It is as if he has forgotten, or rather, he wishes to forget his life with Makareta. With her death, I fear that the whole passage of their time together has become another closed chapter in the secret life of Tommo Solomon, buried where he keeps all the woebegone thoughts of his past. For him, the mongrels have won again and I, who could do nothing to prevent what has happened, feel guilty that I have somehow failed him.

  I leave Tommo in the fo’c’sle, and turn my mind to happier thoughts. Sitting on the deck, I unfold the crumpled letter which Hammerhead Jack brought me from Auckland. I have read it many times, but news from Mary always brings a smile to my face.

  It is a glorious morning as we enter Port Jackson between two high sandstone cliffs. Small white beaches may be seen on either side of the harbour, and beyond them lie steep wooded slopes. I have heard it said that Sydney Cove is one of the most sheltered and treasured ports in the world and this does not surprise me, for it is a beautiful sight.

  A good breeze carries us easily forward and soon enough we begin to see life on the harbour. Hundreds of small craft make their way on the water and some larger ones as well. Though sail predominates, steam ferries and tugs weave their way through the small craft which are carrying every assortment of goods.

  Soon we see a dozen small sailing boats rigged for racing speeding towards us. These must be the provedore’s agents I have heard tell of, the young butchers’ clerks from various establishments, anxious to win the captain’s business. Once the signal station on Flagstaff Hill has received the semaphore announcing a ship’s entrance through the Heads, the clerks rush to the watermen to hire boats. It is generally accepted that the captain of a vessel will award the first provedore’s agent on board the contract for the ship’s meat and vegetables and other victualling requirements. But this does not prove true in our case. Captain Leuwin will not allow them on board the Black Dog and sends them packing with a string of curses. To my delight, these young clerks are not in the least retiring and return the captain’s greetings in no uncertain manner, each vying with the other to hurl the most colourful insults at the Black Dog’s master by means of several hailing funnels.

  Tommo is much amused by this. ‘I think I like Sydney already,’ he announces, and I am glad to see a faint spark of his old spirit.

  Soon the city comes into view, spread back from Sydney Cove and what I shall later learn is Semicircular Quay and the Rocks. We are met by a steam tug and begin our final berthing.

  At last we are in Australia. Sydney is like a gracious lady, of a size large enough to conceal Hobart Town in the pocket of her apron and barely rev
eal the burden. It has been many years since I have been in so large a city and, though excited, I am a little nervous too at the prospect of being among Europeans again, having grown so long used to our Maori friends. I miss their company, especially Tamihana’s and Hammerhead Jack’s.

  Shortly after noon we tie up at a wooden wharf which extends outwards into the harbour, just east of Semicircular Quay. The gangplank barely hits the surface of the wharf when Captain Leuwin orders Tommo and me to disembark.

  ‘Be off!’ he commands.

  I do not trouble to take offence, grateful only that we have arrived safely. So I bid him farewell and thank him politely for our passage. But he stands at the top of the gangplank, thin-lipped, arms crossed about his chest, and will not speak again or even nod, his small, obsidian eyes fixed to the centre of my belly.

  Tommo pauses at the top of the gangplank and turns to the skipper for his own farewell. ‘You’re a right bastard, Leuwin. The pox on ya!’ he calls, then spits over the ship’s side.

  The bosun, a big cove called Red O’Shea grabs Tommo by the throat. ‘Git!’ he says through clenched teeth, which are black and blunted with tobacco stain and rot. Then with his free hand he lifts Tommo by the belt. He is about to throw him over the ship’s rail and onto the wharf, a dozen feet below.

  I have both our canvas bags slung over my shoulder, the rope ties held in my left hand, when I reach him. I tap O’Shea hard to the side of the jaw with a right and he crumples at my feet like a rag doll.

  ‘Come, Tommo!’ I shout and proceed to walk quickly down the gangplank. Tommo follows hard on my heels, but halfway down he turns to face the captain again. ‘You’re still a right bastard, a mongrel, Leuwin!’ he yells again, not in the least quelled by his recent fright.

  I am now at the end of my patience. ‘Tommo! Leave it! Come on, let’s go!’ I grab him by his scrawny neck and propel him down onto the wharf. With my hand closing gently around his neck, my fingers meeting my thumb at his Adam’s apple, I realise how tiny my twin is, and how much I love him.

  The skipper of the Black Dog has now recovered from the shock of seeing his bosun lying at his feet and shouts after us. ‘You’re scum! I’ll have the law on you, you hear me!’ He points to me. ‘Be gone, you piece of nigger dog shit!’ Then he spits down at us, though thankfully it does not carry to where we stand.

  Tommo laughs as I let go his neck. ‘He’s not gunna call in the law!’ he declares. ‘The mongrel don’t want no constables snoopin’ around below decks. Does ya now, Leuwin?’

  ‘Be gone, scum!’ the skipper shouts down at us again, and then turns to attend to O’Shea, who is half-standing with his hands on his knees, shaking his head to clear it.

  But Tommo is now completely recovered, I see, and won’t let it alone. He shouts as loudly as he can, ‘Hey, Leuwin!’ The skipper looks down at Tommo. ‘It’s wahines you’ve got in the hold, ain’t it? You’re bringing Maori women to work as whores in Sydney, ain’t ya?’

  ‘What’s the matter with you?’ I yell at my brother. ‘We’re here hardly two minutes and you’re already making trouble!’

  Tommo shrugs. ‘Ah, to hell with him. Me head hurts. Bugger you, Leuwin, ya miserable bastard!’ he shouts back over his shoulder at the skipper of the Black Dog and we go on our way. ‘And bugger you too, Hawk,’ he mutters under his breath, with scant gratitude.

  We walk in sulky silence around the Quay, past the Customs House to George Street, and then turn left, away from the harbour. Though most of the merchant premises are still closed for lunch, the street barrows and the pavement shopkeepers are open for business. One, heaped high with silver mackerel buried in a glint of chipped ice, catches my eye. Beside it, pigeons and gulls squabble and squawk, ever hopeful that a fish might tumble loose from the slopes of the snowy mountain above. They barely manage to hop and flutter beyond the path of our feet as we pass by, afraid they might lose their place in this feathered queue of wishful thinkers.

  The city streets are a fine sight, with the grand clatter of carts and carriages and the slower creak of a bullock dray coming out of Lyons Auction House, carrying a billiard table and a grand piano. A coach and four turns smartly into Bridge Street and charges down the road as if enjoying sole ownership of it. Everywhere, shipwrights, coopers, sail makers and carpenters, mechanics and those folk who are now termed factory workers, hurry off to an afternoon filled with hammering and clattering, pulleys, pistons, belts and steam whistles.

  We are now well away from where the Black Dog is moored on the east side of Sydney Cove, and I have determined that we are not being followed. Tommo has never said anything to me about there being wahine captives in the hold and I still don’t know if he accused the captain only to make mischief. But if the skipper of the Black Dog should have these Maori women trussed up among the timber, he must feed them at least once each day. This would well explain why we were made to come above decks for an hour after the evening meal. It would also explain the reluctance of the crew to speak to us for fear of the captain’s retribution should the secret come out.

  I realise that Tommo has indeed spoken the truth and understand too why he has said naught of this to me. It is possible that, with his sharp ears, he heard the women below decks, probably when he came out of his delirium after those first two days at sea. Tommo would know that, had I been told of it, I would have felt compelled to rescue these women, thus jeopardising our safety. It would have been easy enough for the crew to feed us to the sharks on a moonless night. Tommo has all the while sought to save me from dangers, and although I would have hoped to help those poor women, I cannot remain angry with my twin for his actions a moment longer. Besides, I am much pleased to be here in Australia, with a high blue sky stretched above me and the smell of steak frying in a chophouse nearby. All I want is to enjoy the beginning of our new life here.

  ‘Hooray, Tommo, we’re back where we belong!’ I cry, clapping him on the back. ‘A cup of tea?’ We have reached a barrow sporting a tea urn atop a small brazier with a sign upon it: Cup T 2d. Milk/Sug. 1d ex. Even this crude sign makes me feel at home and I clasp the steaming cup I have purchased with pleasure.

  Tommo does not seem to share my pleasure and his attention is taken by the barrowman next door who is hawking hot potatoes cooked in their jackets. ‘Taties, steamin’ ’ot taties!’ the hawker yells at passers-by as he juggles a hot spud from one hand to the other. Then he throws it up in the air, a feat accompanied by a whole lot of oohing and ouching, blowing on his hands and dramatic carry-on.

  Tommo’s hand shoots out and grabs the potato from the air. I think he must fancy it for lunch, and it is good news that his appetite is returned. But then he asks, ‘Excuse me, mate, where’s a good pub?’ and hands the potato man back his spud which, I realise now, is stone-cold.

  The barrowman puts down the potato and squints at Tommo. ‘There be ‘undreds o’ public ‘ouses in Sydney to choose from, matey.’ Then he points down Bridge Street. ‘The World Turned Upside Down ain’t bad. They cleans the cellar pipes at sparrer’s fart every mornin’ and you’ll get a nice drop of ale on tap in there.’

  ‘What’s the name again?’ Tommo asks, not sure he’s heard it correctly.

  ‘The World Turned Upside Down. It’s a queer name, that I admits, but good as they come,’ the barrowman repeats.

  ‘Brandy? Does they sell brandy?’

  ‘Course. Bit early, ain’t it?’

  Tommo grins. ‘Never too early, mate. Brandy be mother’s milk!’ Then he turns to me. ‘So?’ he asks defiantly, anticipating my disapproval. He shrugs and looks down at his Farmer Moo-cow boots, before meeting my eyes again. ‘Hawk, me bleedin’ head hurts! I need a drink, all right?’

  ‘Don’t, Tommo, please.’

  His eyes screw up and he starts to whinge, then changes his mind. ‘Just the one. I promise, just the one.’ He grins at me, the old Tommo grin. ‘T’ wet me daughter’s head, like! A merry christening!’ Then he steps past me and crosses George Street, dar
ting in and out of the carts and carriages and into Bridge Street, not once looking back to see if I should follow.

  Oh Lord, whatever shall I do now? Tommo has walked away from me in search of brandy and I know that if I try to restrain him, he will never return. His head wound has changed him. He seems lacking in patience of any sort and his temper rises quickly. But with his beloved Makareta dead and his little daughter lost to him, I cannot deny that he has cause to drown his sorrows.

  I feel sick at heart as I watch him shoulder his way through the crowd and disappear into The World Turned Upside Down hotel. In my pocket is half of the three pounds he won from Maple and Syrup in Auckland. This means Tommo has thirty shillings, more than enough to get him rolling drunk if he chooses. Strong drink has not passed his lips in four years, and it is my forlorn hope that he will soon topple over and be shown out, with a boot planted squarely to his backside. I still have his seaman’s bag and axe, so he is safe enough from himself.

  I can only await Tommo’s return, which I hope will be in an hour or two. There is nothing else I can do, and I feel myself at a complete loss. Despite my anxiety I am starving hungry, for I did not breakfast this morning, being too taken up with our arrival through the Heads. I must eat first and then I shall commence my vigil in the street outside the pub.

  I must also find a slop dealer. I have reluctantly agreed that the first of Tommo’s poker winnings will be spent on seeing me suitably dressed. My whaler’s clothes are in tatters and my boots split and worn. Tommo still wears Farmer Moo-cow’s tweed suit and boots, which could prove a little warm as the winter sun is far stronger here. But of the two of us, he looks passably respectable while I appear the vagabond.

  Already I have noticed the stares of passers-by, some of whom laugh as soon as they believe themselves beyond my hearing. I cannot blame them. I am now seven feet and one inch in height, and nearly two hundred and eighty pounds in weight. My black face wears the moko of the Maori. I am probably a most peculiar sight on a bright winter’s day.