Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  Mr Tang Wing Hung’s opium den is no filthy hovel inhabited by creatures half-alive what slither and crawl about in a dark and fetid atmosphere. His room is a grand place, with six couches in maroon brocade what has dragons leaping and twisting, and exotic flowers about the place. The couches has curtains drawn about them for privacy. The customer never gives his true name even if he be the governor himself and known to all. Only Europeans what can afford Mr Tang Wing Hung’s price may enter.

  I am greeted by an ancient celestial with a pure white pigtail. He wears an oriental cap upon his head and a gown o’ silk down to his ankles. His long pointed beard flows to his waist and his moustache droops downwards to disappear into the fall o’ his snowy beard. His yellow skin is creased like crumpled butcher’s paper and his narrow eyes show barely a glint of light.

  This is Ho Kwong Choi, what’s always silent and always ready to prepare the opium pipes. The pipe be a piece o’ bamboo cane about one inch and a half in diameter, and two foot in length. The bowl is fixed about a third of the way down from its end. It’s broad and flat at the top, with a small hole in the centre where the opium paste sits.

  All is quiet here. Outside there’s the call of children playing, a hawker’s cry, or the busy rattle of a hackney in some nearby street. But these are dull and seem far away. A small bowl o’ paste is placed on a lacquer table beside me couch. Next to it is a lamp, its glass like an upside down bell, the shape of an Easter lily, so that the opening is pointed uppermost with the flame licking at its centre. I watch as Ho Kwong Choi dips a long steel needle into the bowl and quickly winds up a small amount o’ paste what’s somewhat like treacle on its end. This he holds over the flame until the precious pearl of opium begins to bubble.

  Then he places the smouldering opium into the bowl of me pipe and I pull the glorious smoke into me lungs, letting it float in dragon trails through me mouth and nostrils. Each pearl o’ perfection allows only three or four puffs before Ho Kwong Choi must roast another. He does this for near on an hour until I feels like I’m in heaven.

  I’m here enjoying me smoke when the peace of the den is suddenly shattered. The door is battered open and six lads, much the worse for grog, charge into the room. There are three of us within, not counting Ho Kwong Choi, all drawn deep into ourselves from our smoke dreams what are now broken by these louts. They pulls out truncheons from their belts and one wields a rattle what makes a fearful racket. Then they sees Ho Kwong Choi as he comes from behind a curtain into the centre of the room. They storm towards the old Mongolian what stands alone and defenceless. I’m in a cloud o’ confusion, not capable even o’ standing up.

  I ain’t sure if what I sees is part of my opium dream or real but the old man seems to grow into some sort o’ peculiar human spider, his arms and legs flashing through the air with grunts and hisses. He don’t make no noise apart from a grunt or two when he delivers a few chops with the side of his palms to one of the fellows. Another he holds in such a way that his eyes roll back in his head and his knees buckle as he drops to the floor. In a few moments, all six lads is out cold or trying to stagger up. Ho Kwong Choi stands calm among them.

  Four of the blokes slowly rise. They drag their two unconscious mates behind ‘em, and the frail old man bows politely as they stumble out the door.

  I am amazed at what I’ve seen. If I can get Ho Kwong Choi to teach Hawk, perhaps me brother might bring some o’ the venerable Mongolian’s skills to bear on the Irishman. This be our only hope for Hawk to win if Mary don’t agree to pay for the fix.

  It is also the plan I tells Hawk about.

  ‘Within the rules of bare-knuckle fighting, is such a method permitted?’ he wants to know.

  ‘I’ll lay a bet that such a thing ain’t never been seen in a fight before!’ says I. ‘You can’t forbid what’s unknown now, can ya?’

  ‘You mean it will come as a complete surprise?’

  I nod.

  ‘I must see this Mongolian method only as a part of my success. The other part must be competence in the true business of fist-fighting.’

  ‘You be right in that,’ I agree. ‘At best we got three months to teach you the fighter’s trade.’

  ‘Three months? Can we do it?’ Hawk asks.

  ‘It’s all we’ve got. That be the time it will take the Irishman to fight with all the big men coming here from around the country, includin’ Ben Dunn. So you’d best start training, Hawk!’

  ‘Yes, so I see! I told Maggie that we would not work from Jimmy Sullivan’s Sparring Rooms and she is most concerned, thinking him the best trainer in the colony,’ Hawk says.

  ‘Hawk, your training’s got to be a mystery, taking place in a hideaway so that we can build a frenzy o’ rumour and speculation about your form. We has to make the punters think that you can win,’ I says to him. ‘That’s what Mr Sparrow wants and that’s what we wants also. Only difference is that he must be made to think you can’t win, and we knows you can!’

  ‘That should not be too difficult. Mr Sparrow already thinks I can’t win. He just wants me punished.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s got to be absolutely certain you can’t win.’

  ‘How are you going to do that?’

  ‘I dunno,’ I says. ‘I’ll think o’ something. The most important thing Mr Sparrow wants right now is to build up the expectations among the punters that you can win. I’m gunna make that very difficult for him!’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Well, we’re in secret training, ain’t we? I ain’t telling him nothing. So he’s got no news coming out of your camp.’ I spreads me hands. ‘How’s he gunna get the stuff to feed the punters about your prowess?’

  ‘Make it up?’ Hawk offers.

  ‘Nah, that won’t wash. The sportsmen will catch on that it’s all bull. He’s got to have a reliable source.’

  ‘You got any ideas?’

  ‘Yes. Maggie!’

  ‘Maggie? That’s ridiculous, everyone knows she’s my sweetheart!’

  ‘That’s right,’ says I. ‘Here’s the shot. Maggie goes to Mr Sparrow and offers to help him for five quid a week, pay on results end of each week. That way he won’t think it’s a scam and he’ll still think he’s in control.’

  ‘And what exactly does Maggie do for him?’

  ‘She starts rumours in the pubs about yer secret training. But she does this most reluctant, only letting a few stories slip out after a few drinks—never meaning to say nothing. Know what I mean?’

  ‘That’s fine, but how do we know that’s what Mr Sparrow will want her to do? Why should he trust her?’

  ‘She’s a whore. He’d trust a whore to see an opportunity and make something out of it. It’s how Mr Sparrow thinks hisself.’

  ‘What if he doesn’t?’

  ‘Hawk, you got t’ learn to think like a confidence man! It’s obvious, ain’t it? Maggie’s on the inside. She knows what’s happening in your training. She agrees to spy on us and he tells her what rumours she must spread when she’s in the pub.’

  ‘And the punters will trust her?’

  ‘That’s right! She’s known to be your woman, but she’s a woman all the same, what can’t never keep a secret.’

  ‘Tommo, are you sure that’s how it will work?’

  ‘It’ll work better than that! Don’tcha see, Hawk? Maggie will tell Mr Sparrow how things is going real bad for you. You know—you ain’t learning nothing, you’ve took sick, you won’t work at training, you’ve broke two fingers on your right hand, that sort o’ thing. That way, we build his confidence that you can’t win.’

  ‘And he gets Maggie to spread the opposite information! He’ll ask her to drop little tidbits about my awesome prowess!’ Hawk chuckles. ‘And then close to the fight, Mr Sparrow offers very good odds against me winning?’

  ‘You’ve got the idea!’ I says, patting him on the arm. ‘The excitement’s been building for weeks and Mr Sparrow dangles great odds. All the punter fish, takes them hook, line and sinker, ‘cept t
he Parramatta Irish.’

  Hawk laughs. ‘Tommo, I hope to hell you’re right.’ Then he looks concerned. ‘But if Maggie agrees to cooperate, there’ll be no harm come to her, will there? I mean, if we win the fight?’

  ‘Can’t see any likelihood of harm. If we wins it’ll cost Mr Sparrow every penny he’s ever owned. He’ll be ruined and there’s plenty waiting to see it happen so’s they can put the boot in! Then he’ll have no friends to protect him anymore.’

  ‘Well, we must ask Maggie about all this herself,’ Hawk says. ‘If she’s one bit worried, you’re not to push her, Tommo!’

  ‘You’re on,’ I says. But to meself I’m hoping our Mary comes in to save us. This whole ploy’s too bloody risky for yours truly! I thinks what Ikey would say in such a situation and I can hear him clear as a bell. ‘Never let no wrongs and rights creep into a deal, my dears. Who’s wrong, who’s right, that ain’t the answer to the question. It’s who profits at the end of the day!’

  Now we’s embarked on a scheme what’s all about wrongs and rights and the money question only comes after. By Ikey’s rules we’ve got it arse about face. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one bit.

  On Sunday, after Hawk and Maggie has fed the wild brats their roast dinner down the Quay, I gets up from me bed to join them at the chophouse. I has a hangover to end all hangovers. Maggie tries to get me to eat a bowl of Irish stew but the thought of it damn near makes me puke. Hawk eats my tucker as well as his, and we puts the whole plan to Maggie. It don’t take her long to agree.

  ‘It’ll give us another fifty pounds towards the stake too!’ she says. ‘All the better coming from his nibs, Mr Sparrow.’

  ‘Maggie, it could be dangerous. He’s a rough un underneath,’ I warns.

  ‘So’s I, Tommo,’ grins Maggie, ‘and not too far underneath, neither! If Mr Sparrow buys it, we’ll use the folk what live here in the Rocks. They’s always in the pubs and will warm to the task o’ spreading news from a most reliable source.’

  ‘What reliable source will that be?’ Hawk teases.

  ‘Me, o’ course!’ Maggie laughs. ‘Maggie the Mouth! What with women being notorious for gossip and me being well acquainted with fighters and their form, I’m a perfect choice!’

  ‘Folks ‘round here be most respectful of you, Hawk. They’ll be ‘appy to spread news about their hero!’

  ‘Maggie, Tommo and I are only supposing how Mr Sparrow will react. Perhaps he’ll not trust you after all?’

  ‘He will,’ Maggie says. ‘He’d expect a whore to change sides for profit, just like he would himself.’

  ‘The punters, will they not suspect Maggie?’ Hawk now asks me again.

  I sigh. ‘You know what yer problem is, Hawk? You always think men is mostly intelligent when the truth is they’s mostly stupid. ‘Course they knows Maggie’s your doxy! That be why they’ll question her! She’ll pretend to know nothing, naturally, bein’ the very picture o’ female innocence. But, ah, wait! With her tongue loosened by a shout or two o’ Bombay gin, she’ll tell ’em just a little. With each drink, she’ll tell ’em a little more. Until, by the end o’ the evening, the dullest dunderhead in the pub will feel sure he’s heard it from the horse’s mouth. Men’s always willing to think women is stupid and can’t keep a secret.’

  ‘Tommo’s right!’ Maggie says, smiling at us both. ‘There ain’t a man in the world what don’t underestimate the intelligence of a woman. Two o’ them’s sitting right here in front o’ me!’

  We laugh. ‘Maggie, we never doubted you for a minute,’ says I.

  ‘And my trainer, who will he be if not Johnny Sullivan?’ Hawk asks.

  ‘That’s it!’ Maggie exclaims, clapping her hands. ‘That’s who I’ll get to front Mr Sparrow for me! Good old Johnny Sullivan will tell him Maggie Pye requires an urgent and confidential with Mr Sparrer Fart, Esquire.’

  ‘Perfect,’ says I. ‘As to trainers, there be two of ‘em. We’ve got the services of an Aborigine and a Maori, both top-notch fighters in their time.’ Hawk and Maggie look startled at this news, but I continue. ‘Just imagine the talk when it comes out that the Black Jew has an Abo and a Maori to train him! It’ll set a thousand tongues to wagging.’

  Hawk looks bewildered. ‘Tongues to wagging, as may be, but will they get my fists to fighting? Who are these two men?’

  ‘Bungarrabbee Jack and Johnny Heki. The Abo were a lightweight and the Maori a heavy. Both copped a lot o’ punishment from white men and they’s most anxious to help you out against the Bolt, Hawk.’

  ‘And the old Chinaman, have you asked him?’

  ‘He’s said he’ll train you on the sly on Sunday mornings when his opium customers are all at church with their wives. As long as Tang Wing Hung don’t get wind of it, we’ll be right.’

  ‘I’ve seen him,’ Maggie chimes in. ‘Funny old bugger, looks like he’s come straight out o’ me nightmares.’

  ‘Can he speak English?’ Hawk asks.

  ‘Not much, but his sort of fighting is show more than tell!’

  Maggie’s got to go. She kisses Hawk goodbye, then me, her lips soft on the side o’ my cheek.

  I waits for Hawk to ask the final question, the biggest of them all, and now he does.

  ‘We have the one hundred pounds from the Dunn fight,’ Hawk says slowly. ‘That will do for a down payment but how will we obtain the rest—the other hundred and fifty pounds?’

  ‘If Mr Sparrow pays Maggie a fiver a week to be his informer, that’s another fifty or so. She reckons she can also get a loan of another hundred pounds on her property if she throws in the chophouse. With your money, that’s all we need!’

  ‘No!’ says Hawk, shaking his head. ‘Maggie must not get a loan on her property for my sake!’

  ‘Hawk, she loves ya! She wants to give you the money.’

  ‘No, Tommo!’ Hawk bangs his fist on the table.

  ‘She thinks you’ll win. It’s only a loan. Besides, she’ll be bitter disappointed if you don’t let her. She’ll think you don’t love her!’ I jokes.

  ‘It’s because I do that I don’t want her to risk her money!’ Hawk shouts at me.

  ‘Oh!’ says I, me eyes wide open in surprise, ‘loves her, does ya? Loves Maggie Pye?’

  Hawk’s eyes drop to his hands what rest in his lap, his hands what used to do all his talking. Then he looks up slowly and asks quietly, ‘What if I do?’

  ‘Nothin’,’ I shrugs. ‘Me brother loves a whore, that’s all. Nothin’ wrong with that, I suppose.’ I raises an eyebrow. ‘After all, our mama were a whore, weren’t she!’ I don’t know whether what I’m saying is good or bad, comforting to him or an insult, it’s all mixed up in me head. But I’m shocked more than I can say.

  I likes Maggie, it’s true, but always in the back o’ me mind is the thought that she’s a gold digger. If ever she hears of Hawk’s prospects at home she’ll dig her claws in, she’ll suck him dry.

  ‘You hasn’t told Maggie about Mary and the brewery, has ya?’ I asks.

  Hawk looks up at me and I see a tear run down his cheek. ‘I haven’t told her anything, Tommo. She doesn’t know that I love her, nor does she know about Mary’s brewery!’

  ‘Hawk, you remembers what Ikey says about whores, don’t you? Once a whore, always a whore. There ain’t no good ones, no matter what.’

  ‘Ikey!’ Hawk yells, banging his fist down on the table. ‘Ikey’s dead, why must we always kowtow to Ikey Solomon?’

  ‘Because he were a first-class villain what got most things right,’ I says. ‘Ikey knew more whores than you’ve had hot dinners!’

  Hawk clenches his fists for a moment, then sighs. ‘Look at me, Tommo. I’m a nigger. You know what white people think of a big nigger? They think I’m going to rape their wives or harm their children. They think I must be stupid or inferior and when they find out I’m not, they like it even less. Now here’s a white woman who loves me for myself!’

  ‘Hawk, if women knew about Mary’s money they’d be
linin’ up for ya.’

  ‘That may be, but it’s not enough. I want someone to love me, someone I can love back!’

  ‘And so you think only a whore could love you for yourself, is that it?’

  ‘I think this one loves me, Tommo!’

  ‘But you won’t let her help you?’

  Hawk glares at me. ‘Do you know what it took for Maggie to buy her home and the eatery? Most of the brats she grew up with are dead from violence or drink or opium. She’s survived, to get her own place, own a small business, make things nice. That was done the hard way, but she did it!’

  ‘The hard way? She done it on her back!’

  ‘How else could she do it? Our society doesn’t educate Maggie’s kind. How many parlour or kitchen maids do you know who own their own rooms and business? None, that’s how many! Whoring was Maggie’s only way out of the gutter.’

  ‘So why don’t she stop, now she’s a person o’ property? She’s still a whore, ain’t she?’ says I.

  Hawk shrugs. ‘Maggie has the right to choose how she lives, Tommo. This is a good time for a young and pretty woman like her, providing she doesn’t go to her ruin on gin or the poppy. The gold diggings has made many a poor cove rich and generous and many a rich man very indulgent. Maggie’s taking advantage while she can, knowing it won’t last forever. I understand this of someone who’s had her difficulties in life. She wants to give up one day, though.’

  ‘What then? After she’s done her share o’ gold digging, she’ll retire the magpie off her hat and marry a squatter, or even become Mrs Hawk Solomon?’

  ‘I haven’t asked her, Tommo. I don’t expect she would if I did.’

  ‘Hawk, ask her. Garn, ask her to marry you!’

  There’s a method in me madness here. If Maggie hears the true story of Hawk and me before he asks her, we’ll never know if she’s said yes because of the money. If she says yes before she finds out, that be quite another matter.