Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  ‘Adventure? What sort of adventure? Can’t be better than getting shickered after four years!’

  ‘Much better, a thousand times better, I promise. It’ll fix whatever ails yer.’ He bangs the bell and orders two nobblers each for us. I hasn’t even touched the last one Doreen brought.

  ‘But I ain’t said yes, Mr Sparrow,’ I protest.

  He ignores me and retires to the corner as promised. He gives Fat Fred a shake and they talk quietly between themselves while I stand at the bar and tackle the three Cape brandies in front o’ me. By the time I’ve finished the second, me head is spinning. It ain’t sore any more but the saloon bar looks as wavy as if I were still aboard the Black Dog. I drink the third, spillin’ some of the precious liquid on the front of me jacket. Then I take up the fourth.

  All I remember after that is Mr Sparrow’s voice murmuring. ‘Steady now, take it easy, Tommo, there’s a good lad.’ Then he’s talking to someone, what could be Fat Fred. ‘We’ll take him upstairs,’ I hear him say. Then I don’t remember nothing.

  I wake up in a dark room and I’m lying on a proper bed with a blanket covering me. Me head hurts, but not too bad. I has a strange recollection of being waked from time to time and made to drink gallons of water, or so it seemed in me dreams. Now I’m busting for a piss. I lie a moment, listening for sounds, and see a thin strip of light coming in from the drapes. It’s daylight and I can hear street sounds, but they is some distance below me.

  I gets up and sees that me boots has been took off, along with me trousers and jacket. All I’m wearing is Farmer Moo-cow’s woollen blouse. I walk softly over to the door and tries the knob, but it’s locked. Then I goes to the window and pulls the drapes open. I’m looking down into a narrow lane, more a cutting between buildings than a passageway, barely wide enough to walk through. Two stray dogs are sniffing each other’s arses, turning ‘round and ‘round, and bumping into the walls on either side. There’s no sign of anyone else. I try to open the window, thinking I might piss out of it into the lane below, but it won’t budge. What am I to do? Then I see a small washstand with a basin atop. I ain’t tall enough to piss straight into it, so I put it on the floor and passes water for maybe ten minutes or more o’ blessed relief.

  I’m a new man when I lift the basin back up onto the washstand. Then I starts thinking about me predicament. Has I been kidnapped? How did I get here? Slowly, my memories of the pub comes back to me. Four brandies! Once I could’ve took ten and walked home. Hell, what time is it? Is it morning? Afternoon, I thinks, from the look of the lane. Is it today still or tomorrow? Where’s Hawk? He’ll be goin’ spare!

  I walk to the door and bang upon it with me fist. ‘Anyone there?’ I shouts. It don’t take a moment before I hear the rattle of a key and the door is opened. Two lads, no more than ten or eleven years old, stand looking in at me.

  ‘Afternoon, squire,’ says one of ‘em, cheeky-like.

  ‘Where am I? What’s the time?’ I demand.

  ‘It be just after noon, the post office clock just gorn not more ’n ten minute since, squire.’

  ‘Don’t call me squire! Who brung me here?’ I ask.

  ‘You was shickered, guv. Mr Sparrow said we should mind yiz. Been ‘ere all bleedin’ day, we ‘as.’ He jerks his thumb at the second boy. ‘Him an’ me, we’s had no sleep and nothin’ to eat all day, neither.’

  ‘Where is he—Mr Sparrow? Can ya fetch him?’

  ‘If you’ll let us lock you back in? Strict instructions, we’s got.’

  ‘Where’s me togs?’ I ask.

  ‘Dunno. Fat Fred took ’em this mornin’.’

  They close the door and I hear the key turn in the lock.

  Before long there are voices outside and soon enough in comes Mr Sparrow, carrying a brown paper parcel tied with twine.

  ‘How are we feeling, Tommo? How’s your poor noggin?’ He smiles, then reaches into the pocket of his breeches and hands me a small flask. ‘Hair of the dog, lad. One sip only, mind. We got business t’night.’

  ‘I’ve got to find me brother now, Mr Sparrow.’ But I reach for the flask and take a long swig.

  ‘Now, now! Steady on, we’ve got a long afternoon and night ahead, lad.’

  I hand Mr Sparrow back the flask. ‘Where’s me clothes? I’ve got to go and find me brother.’

  ‘The nigger?’ he says straight away.

  ‘Aye, Hawk Solomon, me twin. He’ll be out lookin’ for me.’

  ‘Twin? Him? You and he be twins? T’ain’t possible—he’s pitch-black, a giant!’ Mr Sparrow grins his weasel grin. ‘Ikey knock up a black gin then, did he? Dirty old bugger!’ Then he looks puzzled. ‘But then that don’t explain you, does it?’

  ‘I’ll tell you how it come about some other time,’ I says, impatient. ‘You’ve made Hawk’s acquaintance then, has ya?’

  ‘I ain’t, but I heard he’s been downstairs asking for yer.’

  ‘Didn’t that bloomin’ Doreen tell him she’d seen me?’

  ‘Doreen only sees what she’s told to see. She’s blind as a bat when she needs to be.’ Mr Sparrow smiles. ‘But don’t you fuss none, Tommo, we’ve had ‘arf a dozen of my lads following your brother. I daresay it ain’t too easy to lose a seven-foot nigger. How’s your head, then?’ He grins again. ‘We gave you plenty o’ water on the hour.’

  ‘Me head’s fine, where’s me clothes?’

  ‘Be here soon, a new set for you.’

  ‘What’s you mean?’ I cries. ‘Where’s me own clobber? Ya took me flamin’ clothes!’

  ‘Not took, replaced. You can’t be seen to be the country bumpkin where we’re going tonight, Mr Ace O’ Spades. I even took yer shoe size when you were asleep. Yer precisely the same size as me.’ Mr Sparrow hands me the parcel under his arm. ‘They be my third best set o’ crabshells.’

  I’m still holding this parcel when a lad comes to the door with another large paper package, his head and cabbage-tree hat barely peeking out above it. ‘From Hordern’s Drapery, Mr Sparrow,’ he announces.

  It seems Sparrer Fart is King of the Sydney lads. Apart from the two what were guarding the door, there’s three more on the landing, and now this one’s appeared. Not to mention the half dozen what’s following Hawk.

  ‘Help yourself, Tommo,’ Mr Sparrow says proudly, putting the parcel on the bed. ‘Best there is, short o’ tailor-made!’ Inside the parcel is a good worsted suit of clothes, three new blouses, a waistcoat and a fancy neckerchief of the kind toffs wear. There’s even a hat of a sort I’ve never seen before.

  Mr Sparrow picks it up, removes his own headgear and places the new one on his head at a rakish angle. ‘Latest fashion, all the rage in London, most suitable and becoming for a young man about town like yerself.’

  ‘Look, Mr Sparrow, I don’t know what you’re doing, but I don’t want no part of it ‘til you explains everything. What the hell’s goin’ on? All I wants is me own gear back so’s I can get out of here and find me brother!’

  ‘Steady on, lad,’ Mr Sparrow soothes. ‘You get dressed and I’ll tell yer all about the grand adventure I’ve got planned for us tonight.’

  ‘Oh, an adventure this very night, is it? No doubt a thousand times better than getting pissed, is it? I told ya already, I’m off!’ I picks up a blouse and starts to undo the buttons when two young lads bring in a jug of hot water, steam coming out the top.

  ‘Pour it in the basin,’ Mr Sparrow instructs.

  ‘What’s that for?’ I asks, suspicious. The lad hesitates and looks at Mr Sparrow.

  ‘Don’t suppose a wash be out the question, seeing you’re near naked but for your woollen blouse?’ Mr Sparrow says. ‘Bit of a scrub up do yer the world o’ good, plenty o’ hot water and a clean towel, what do you say?’

  I hesitate. Truth is, I fancies a bath. Hawk’s put me in the habit o’ cleanliness and I hasn’t had a wash for longer than I cares to remember. But what’s I gunna do? There in that basin is my own piss! It must stink something awful. ‘Much
obliged, Mr Sparrow,’ I says, and turn to the lad holding the jug. ‘Leave it here.’ I set the new blouse aside and, rising from the bed, takes me time getting me old blouse off. Then I pick up the jug and walk over to the washstand. I pour the water into it and bend over as if to wash me face. Then I pause and sniff. I pull me head back in alarm.

  ‘What the hell…’ I exclaim. ‘It stinks!’ I point into the basin, then I looks ‘round angry at the two lads. ‘What’s you brats playin’ at?’

  ‘What’s wrong, Tommo?’ Mr Sparrow asks.

  I point to the empty jug. ‘Some dirty little bugger’s pissed in me jug of hot water!’

  Mr Sparrow throws a conniption on the spot. He sends for another basin and jug of hot water, and soundly boxes the ears of the two boys, what jumps up and down, whining their innocence. Then, when me clean water arrives, he tells all the lads to scarper, so that we’s on our own. He laughs quiet at me. ‘I like a nimble mind. Piss in the basin, did yer?’

  I grin in reply. He’s a man after my own heart, I reckons. I bathe and dress and Mr Sparrow tells me about his plans for tonight. It seems that, amongst other things, he runs a regular game o’ cards. It’s mostly for rich toffs what wants to taste the entertainments of Sydney. ‘Not just cards—women, grog, a prize fight if we can arrange it. Delights of the Night, I calls it,’ he says. He explains that Fat Fred is the manager of several prize fighters. ‘Nothing like a prize fight to bring out the nabobs and open their purses, Tommo.’ But while the gambling on the fights be a good earner when there’s a big purse on, poker’s the mainstay. Seems everybody’s up for a game o’ flats—merchants, squatters, barristers and judges, graziers, men rich from the goldfields, even the celestials what has learned to play poker out in the diggings.

  ‘The Chinese from the goldfields?’

  ‘Aye, they be very keen gamblers.’

  ‘And they comes to yer poker games with the landed gentry?’

  ‘No, once a month we play down in Chinatown and the landed gentry come to them. Very exotic it is, too. There be other attractions in Chinatown as well as a good game of poker. Matter o’ fact, that be where we’re going tonight,’ Mr Sparrow smiles.

  ‘We? I ain’t said I’m coming!’ I’m sitting on the edge of the bed lacing up Mr Sparrow’s spare boots. They fit a treat and I has to admit I likes the feel of boots with hose again.

  ‘Stand up and let’s look at you, Tommo. Breeches fit, I can see that. Shoes?’ I nod. ‘Put the jacket on.’ I does as he asks. ‘Not bad, not too bad at all, a little bit o’ fattening up and the fit’ll be perfect.’

  Suddenly Mr Sparrow takes a step forward and grabs me by the lapels of me jacket. He pulls me close. ‘Look, Tommo, don’t be a fool!’ His voice is hard and he looks most weasel-like. ‘If you’re as good as I thinks, and if you’re trained by Ikey Solomon, you’ll clear a fiver tonight. You’ll win a lot more, but the rest is mine until you’re tested, then we’ll split a bit more even. That’s me best offer! Take it or leave it! Now make up yer mind, son!’

  ‘A fiver, you say?’

  ‘I’ll guarantee it.’

  ‘You’re on.’

  ‘You’ll not regret it, my dear Ace O’ Spades,’ says Mr Sparrow, very pleased with himself. He points to the bed. ‘Sit down. There’s more to tell.’

  In me new togs I feel my confidence return, and I like the sound of this adventure more and more. I sit back and Mr Sparrow starts to fill me in on the detail. ‘Now, you don’t know me from a bar o’ soap, yer hear? That’s the first thing you has to get into your noggin—we’re strangers. You’ve just arrived from Tasmania and is looking for a game o’ cards. You’ve got a quid or two—family has a sheep run and a good stand o’ timber—but you’re a bit of a cornstalk. This way, no one will get suspicious if yer can’t answer their questions, seeing as you’re from Tasmania an’ all.’

  ‘Well thanks very much,’ says I. ‘Wait ‘til you meet Hawk. He’s from Tasmania too.’

  Mr Sparrow looks at me hard, not liking me little bit o’ fun. ‘Now listen, lad, we play straight unless we’re losing bad. If I light me cigar and blow a single smoke ring, you may consider relocating your cards, but not a moment before, you understand?’ I nod and he continues. ‘The Chinese don’t usually take to the flats, they’s got their own ways o’ gambling, but this lot’s learnt in the goldfields. Don’t make the mistake o’ thinking them new chums to the game, though. If they think you’re relocating, they’ll have a knife in your belly soon as look at yer. I mean it, Tommo, no cheatin’ unless I say. And yer name is Ace O’ Spades. Incognito be well accepted around here. The chief justice himself be known as Tom Jones, and the attorney general as William Pitt.’ He leans back and cups his hands about his raised knee. ‘By the way, we’ve got a partner in this endeavour, Mr Tang Wing Hung. He arranges the game and the entertainment after and takes his cut.’

  ‘From me fiver or from what I earns for you?’

  ‘It don’t work that way. What we earns in cash, we keeps. The celestials are back from the goldfields and they’ve got a lot o’ gold dust. They’ll play with coins or notes at first, but if they loses what they’ve got, and it’s your job to see they do, most won’t quit, they’ll just think to change their luck by bringing out their gold.

  ‘It’s Mr Tang Wing Hung’s pleasure to cash their gold nuggets or dust for currency at special rates, no doubt most onerous, it’s not my concern. That’s his profit and not to be questioned or shared with us.’

  ‘I’ll have to tell Hawk where I is,’ I says. ‘He’ll be fretting that something’s happened to me.’

  ‘No, Tommo. This Chinese game be most private organised. There’ll be some big wigs there what can’t be seen in Chinatown. I can’t take no chances of you tellin’ anyone. There’s reputations at risk. If the nabobs are seen to gamble with the celestials, heads will roll! You stay stum, not a dicky-bird to no one, you swear?’ I nod and he says, ‘Can you write?’

  ‘A little. Me hand is very poor, though.’

  ‘That don’t matter, long as yer brother knows it well.’

  ‘Well enough. He taught me.’

  ‘Good! Then write yer beloved brother a note in yer own hand, telling him you’re safe and you’ll see ’im in the morning. One o’ the lads will deliver it, I promise yer.’

  After a moment I agree and he sends one of the ever-present lads standing outside the door to fetch pen, blacking and paper.

  ‘Just one thing more, Mr Sparrow, to settle me mind. Why’d ya do that relocation this morning? That full house be a trick what a man of your skill with the flats would never reveal to someone he don’t know. If you was thinking me a whaleman just paid out, ya would’ve scared me away with your tricks!’

  ‘You insult me, my dear. I don’t play with such bowyangs. Not my style, not my style at all.’

  ‘So, why did ya waste yer talent on me? Easy to see I ain’t no true merino!’

  ‘I admit, when you walked in wearing those old togs, you had me fooled. But when I come over and took up the glass o’ bad brandy Doreen gives yer, I take a gander at your right hand, and I see the calloused edge to yer thumb and forefinger. That comes from only one thing, my dear, playing with the flats, practising yer skill. It takes thousands and thousands of hours to build up that ridge o’ skin and don’t I know it! I saw at once you were no whaleman but a broadsman. I had to brave the next step, get you to show me yer form, see if you’d back off or not.’

  ‘But what if I couldn’t match your very superior piece o’ relocation?’

  ‘Matter o’ fact, I was pretty certain you couldn’t. But as the great Ikey Solomon would say, “Never take nothing for granted, my dears. The day you lose is the day you think you can’t be beat. Sooner or later there’s someone comes along what’s younger and better than you. If you’re ready for him, then you can delay the fall, make a deal, a partnership. But if you’re not ready, then he will gobble you up.” ’

  ‘And you supposed it could be me? That I could
be the one what’s younger and better?’ I ask, amazed.

  Mr Sparrow holds up his right hand, and with the forefinger of his left traces the calloused ridge on his thumb and forefinger. ‘See that? It took me near thirty years to build and I’m getting older and slower, lad. It’s rare to see a ridge what even comes close. I had to find out if you’d the nerve, the speed and the mind to match. If you were worth the training. I didn’t think you’d best me. No, I thought when you saw what I could do, you’d want to learn from me.’

  ‘And now?’

  Mr Sparrow laughs. ‘I can still teach you a trick or two, Mr Ace O’ Spades! There’s other things you’ll need to know if you don’t want to be found floating in Sydney Harbour with yer throat cut. We begin tonight with the celestials. I hope to make Ikey Solomon, may he rest in peace, most proud of the both of us. Proud of me fer listening down the years and you fer agreeing we be partners.’

  ‘Ikey would’ve liked that,’ I say. I thinks of him, stranded amongst the Maori ancestors, nothing to eat but roast pork three times a day. Old Ikey must be wondering what he done wrong to me and Hawk for us to put him into such a terrible predicament. ‘I don’t think Ikey’s playing much cribbage where he is,’ I confides to Mr Sparrow.

  But wherever he is, I thinks, to meself, I hope Ikey’s proud o’ me for beating the Splendour of the Sparrer!

  BOOK THREE

  Chapter Sixteen

  HAWK

  Sydney

  September 1860

  Sydney is thriving. The houses of the wealthy merchants are most elegant, with not a lick of paint spared, and every brass doorknob highly polished. Many of them sit in pleasant gardens filled with native and English plants of all description, some even sporting fountains in this city short of water. The government and commercial buildings and the churches which, for the most part, are made of the local sandstone, are handsome and well maintained.

  The streets are paved and have footpaths. Those running up from Semicircular Quay and across the length of the city are wide, though many a cross street is no more than a narrow lane. Hyde Park, a long strip of dust quite unlike its London namesake, is a popular area for promenading and recreation, a few minutes’ brisk walk or a twopenny omnibus ride from the centre of town.