Unfortunately, many are not prepared to make the effort. While the Chinaman is not afraid to bend his back and does not expect to come by his wealth easily, his European counterpart is not so fond of small earnings and hard work in the hot sun. Every day he looks to strike it big and will take up a new claim with great expectations. He works it for a few weeks, grows impatient at the small pickings and abandons the site for what he believes is a more propitious one elsewhere—whereupon the Chinaman, who seldom starts a claim from scratch, moves in to rework the ground the European has abandoned. When the European is again disappointed and returns to his old quarters, he finds the Chinaman has worked it at a nice profit to himself, and so he demands it back!
Their hard work has made the Chinese the subject of the white man’s resentment and hatred. The Miner’s Gazette scurrilously describes them as ‘filthy, immoral, treacherous and quarrelsome, heathen celestials, who waste water, steal gold, ruin good digging ground, spread leprosy, and practise secret vices on the bodies of white women and white boys.’ It is firmly believed by many that the Chinese rape white women and children at every turn, without an ounce of evidence to support it—although some men will swear blind they’ve seen them.
Caleb Soul takes umbrage at this. ‘It is often enough said that the Chinese are lesser beings than the white folk, but I count them a better breed than most of the European rabble at Lambing Flat. This particular diggings has the worst class of men of any goldfield I’ve seen. It’s crawling with adventurers of the lowest type,’ he confided to us before we arrived.
‘I had hoped for the worst class of man with a pocketful of gold to lose at the card table,’ Tommo had replied. ‘Poor men with a little to spend may be good for your trade, Caleb, but for mine they be a disaster!’
Caleb Soul laughed at this. ‘There are sufficient here who’ve struck it rich to fill your pockets ten times over, lad. Some of these men did not once have five pounds, and are now worth thousands. Poor men who grow rich overnight are careless with their money.’
At my suggestion, Tommo and I go into one of the general stores, to see what the trading is like here. The shop we enter is a tent like any other, but a bit larger and squarer, with a flag flying from the tent pole to denote that it is a shopkeeper’s establishment.
I am unprepared for the scene that meets us within. Laid out before us is a collection of every known object used by man in the course of living. How such an accumulation of contradictory merchandise may be gathered in a lifetime defies the imagination. Yet the storekeeper has obviously managed to bring them all together here, to one of the remotest regions of New South Wales, from all corners of the globe. From sugar candy to potted anchovies, East India pickles to bottles of Bass’s pale English ale, slippers to stays, babies’ booties to picks and shovels, every form of mining equipment, household essential, foodstuff and frippery is here. A pair of herrings hangs over a bag of sugar. Nearby lie raisins, dried sausages, saddles, harnesses, ribbons and bonnets. Cheeses in the round and loaves of bread are stacked on the floor next to bars of yellow soap. Tins of every conceivable type of vegetable, fish and meat, and even a crate of champagne, line one side of the tent. All this I see in my first casual observation. A closer inspection would reveal a thousand more of these et ceteras, I’m sure.
The shop is crowded with men swearing and guffawing, children bawling and squealing, and women wagging their tongues—their shrill voices rising above the buzz. Banter, blubbing, brouhaha, laughter and earnest talk fill the tent.
In one corner stands the storekeeper. He seems undismayed by the cacophony around him and is buying gold from a miner, no doubt using every trick known to cheat a free fraction of an ounce from the precious hoard for himself. The storekeeper has put a priority on dealing with the miner and ignores the crowd waiting to be served. Not wishing to buy anything, we take our leave.
Tommo and I visit several of these stores in the course of the afternoon. They all have a great variety of merchandise, much of which I would never have thought necessary at a gold diggings. One shop has a tailor’s dummy on which is displayed a dress purported to replicate Queen Victoria’s wedding gown. It is of a cream-coloured taffeta silk and glorious to behold, with many pearls stitched to it, though I don’t suppose these are real as in the original. It is a trifle dusty and soiled in places where curious fingers have plucked at the material, but still it wears a price of fifty pounds. A notice is pinned to the frock.
HRH Prince Albert’s wedding clothes
are also available upon enquiry.
Alterations made within the week.
I am much bemused by all I observe and wonder how as shopowner I should ever know what to order beyond those things normal to every store. I purchase a pound of tea and the same of sugar for our new landlady and am shocked at the price! I perceive at once how a shopkeeper’s fortune is so readily made. The profit is upwards of four hundred per cent on each item.
Tommo and I return to our landlady’s shack and I give her the tea and sugar. She fumbles at the hem of her petticoat to find a small knot. ‘I must return your rent, then,’ she says. We refuse as gently as we can, whereupon she brings her soiled pinny to her eyes and, sobbing, rushes into her miserable little shack.
We walk down to the creek and have a wash. The water is muddy and cold. What appears to have once been a wide river is now the merest trickle—the miners have used up the water for sluicing in their long toms, cradles and panning dishes.
Tommo points to several tree stumps rooted out and tossed upon the scarred banks. ‘That’s wattle,’ he observes. ‘It would have looked a treat flowerin’ here once. Now it’s nothing but mud and gravel.’
As the sun sets, it grows cold and I realise I am famished. I have not eaten anything other than two cold chops and a pannikin of tea at dawn. My twin, however, shows no sign of hunger. He sips from a black bottle he carries with him, one of several I have bought for him from Tucker & Co. Tommo has grown fidgety and his eyes take on a vacant look I have come to know when he craves opium. On the road to Lambing Flat, Tommo would simply take himself away from our camp and return in an hour or so. Now he will probably go quietly to the tent and light his little lamp, seeking salvation from his poppy pipe. When I suggest it is time for dinner he shows no interest.
‘Bring me something,’ he says absently.
‘Will you be in the tent?’ I ask but he is already walking away from me. ‘I’ll see you in an hour, then!’ I shout, and he lifts his arm to acknowledge he’s heard me. As he goes he rubs the tops of his arms as though his skin has a terrible itch upon it. His head is bowed and he has acquired a sort of shuffle, and looks weary of life.
There is a lump in my throat as I watch him depart. He is so small that his shoulder can snuggle under my armpit and so fragile in appearance that it seems as if he might blow away. In the past few nights, I have become aware as never before that Tommo cannot live without the dreaded Chinese drug.
I ache with the pain of knowing this, and my eyes blur at the sadness in him. I would give anything that my brother might be cured. I resolve again to do whatever it might take to win against the Irishman so that I can destroy Mr Sparrow and his vile greed. Surely then Tommo will escape the grasp of this evil addiction. Poor Tommo, I love him so very much and yet can do so little to help him. The more I try the more I seem to fail.
I think of Maggie, my heart’s delight, who makes me laugh and who loves me. How very much I would like to take the magpie from its nest and place a bridal veil in its place. I sniff back my tears and chuckle at this thought—the white lace of purity and chastity for my Maggie Pye! It seems ridiculous, yet there is a purity and openness in her loving heart which I have not observed in anyone else. It is as though, having faced the worst in life, she has come through the flames and the dross has been burnt off, leaving only the pure gold remaining. But sometimes I think I must be deluding myself—that whatever virtue I ascribe to her, Maggie is still a whore. ‘And once a whore, my dears?
Always a whore.’ I beat back Ikey’s words from my memory.
I love Maggie and wish to be with her all the days of my life. But not at a cost to Tommo. I shall never leave Tommo as long as he needs me. For the seven years he was lost in the wilderness, even Mary believed him dead. But never I. Every day at the moment of waking, I could feel him alive, the pulse of him within me. I could hear him breathing in the silence of my own breath and, when feeling my heart beat under my palm, I could feel two beats for every one—two hearts, his and mine.
It’s just gone six when I reach the large tent where Caleb left us this afternoon. My friend is waiting for me in a long line of men. He indicates for me to join him, turning to those in the queue who grumble. ‘He’s the heavyweight champion of the colony. Would any of you lads care to have a go? Anyone game?’ He points to one of the complainants. ‘You, sir?’
The crowd laughs, and a chorus of voices bids me keep my place, though I worry it is not fair. Some wag shouts, ‘Will he pay double for the size o’ the supper he eats, ‘cause he ain’t gettin’ mine!’
‘What’s yer name, then?’ someone else asks. ‘Yer fighting name?’
I think for a moment. Hawk Solomon does not sound too exotic to the ear. ‘Black Hawk,’ I say on impulse, remembering my Maori name.
Caleb Soul looks delighted. ‘Black Hawk, heavyweight champion of the colony!’ he shouts so all may hear.
This is repeated by several of the men around me, and passed up and down the line. ‘Who’s you fighting next?’ someone asks.
‘The Lightning Bolt! The Irish and English heavyweight champion!’ Caleb Soul answers for me again.
‘Jaysus!’ a voice nearby exclaims. ‘You be the blighter what knocked Ben Dunn out the ring. Right over the bleedin’ ropes into the lap of a whore! I read it in the Gazette.’
‘Not quite,’ I reply, surprised at how quickly the story has spread and grown. ‘I was lucky to hit him at all.’
‘Yes, with a sledgehammer!’ Caleb Soul laughs and holds up my arm. ‘Take off your jacket. Make a fist now, champ!’
I feel most foolish, but realise it is all for the good of the coming fight, so I remove my coat.
‘Roll up your sleeve, let the lads see,’ Caleb instructs.
I think to refuse but he’s a decent sort and means well. I pull up my sleeve and clench my fist, bending my arm at the elbow. ‘Holy Jeremiah!’ someone shouts and all around us laugh and exclaim.
I am most relieved when at this moment a man comes to the entrance of the tent holding a large metal triangle which he beats with a bar. ‘Tucker’s up!’ he shouts over the clanging. ‘Pay at the door! Them what’s weekly, show yer grub cards!’
‘That was a good start, lad,’ Caleb says as we move forward. ‘News of your arrival will be all over the diggings by morning. Shouldn’t be too hard to get a card game going for Tommo!’ He looks concerned. ‘He is coming to eat, ain’t he?’
‘I’ll take him something, for his appetite is poor.’
‘He should eat more,’ Caleb worries. He has said the same thing to Tommo himself, every night on the road, with Tommo always replying with a little poem of his own.
I eats like a sparrow
And drinks like a fish,
Brandy’s me water,
Thin air’s me tasty dish!
Inside the tent I take my mind off my little brother, knowing that worrying will achieve nothing. Caleb points out two of the gold commissioners among those around us as well as several bankers, squatters and swells who have come to see the rush. The room is mostly occupied by diggers, sweat-stained and dirty. Shopkeepers, bullies and loafers are there too.The diggings is a great leveller of men and all mix happily enough together.
The kitchen is on the other side of a wall of logs. It is built like a cabin, with a porthole set at waist height through which the various comestibles are pushed. The cooks within scream out to the waiters as each plate comes through—‘Irish stew!’ ‘Liver and bacon!’ ‘Roast mutton!’ This mingles with the clatter of plates, the rattle of knives and forks, and the sounds of hungry men demanding to be served. All over the tent plates are held aloft and voices are raised to the waiters requesting a return, which Caleb explains is a second helping.
I eat everything that is placed before me, leaving nothing for Tommo. As soon as my plate is wiped clean, I too hold it up and yell for roast mutton, this being the easiest food to carry away with me. Just as the waiter places my second helping down, a fellow at the next table takes the plate.
‘Oi, that’s not yours!’ says the waiter.
‘Is now!’ retorts the cove.
‘It is not,’ the waiter reiterates and goes to grab it back. The cove smashes him in the face and down he goes. Two miners next to the plate-snatcher also jump up and kick at the waiter, one hitting him in the head. Another ruffian leaps from the next table and lashes out at the fallen man’s ribs. Several more rush to the fray.
I rise from my seat. ‘Stop it!’ I yell, pulling some of the ruffians away, but more come, kicking and stamping on the poor wretch with evil satisfaction. The man on the floor is now in a state of insensibility, his features battered beyond recognition. Another heavy boot lands toe-first into his face and several teeth depart from his jaw.
I am still trying to pull people away, and now grow furious. With a roar, I land my fist into one villain’s face and then again into a second man. Both drop to the ground but are immediately replaced by others. I hit them too. Five more men come running. I grab the first by his belt and neck and, lifting him above my head, throw him at the other four, sending them all sprawling. In the process, several tables and the people seated at them go flying.
It is all over and a deathly quiet falls over the room as I pick up the little waiter and carry him in my arms to the porthole. The other diners gasp as they see what has been done to him. He is taken by hands I cannot see and I walk back to Caleb Soul, stepping over the five ruffians who are either unconscious or playing possum.
‘I think we should leave, don’t you?’ I say, panting slightly from the fight.
We turn to walk out when, almost as one, the men in the tent stand and begin to clap.
‘Good on ya!’ someone shouts.
‘Well done, lad!’ yells another.
‘Hooray!’
A small door set into the log wall opens. ‘Mr Black Hawk! Mr Black Hawk!’ It is the chef, whom Caleb has told me is also the proprietor. He is hurrying towards us from the kitchen.
‘Here’s trouble,’ I mutter to Caleb, thinking the man must want me to pay for the broken crockery.
But as the owner comes up, I see he is carrying a plate piled high with mutton and potatoes. ‘You’ve not had your returns!’ He proffers the plate. ‘Here, lad, eat up!’
‘I think we’d best leave, Felix,’ Caleb Soul says. ‘We’ve caused enough trouble for one night.’
‘Trouble? No trouble at all, mate! I’ve been hoping something might happen to them bunch of bully-boys.’
‘Is the waiter all right?’ I ask.
‘Not good, lad, not good at all. But we’ve sent a boy for Doctor Bullmore. Let’s hope he ain’t too drunk to attend.’ Felix holds the plate of food out for me to take. ‘Bring back the plate tomorrow, will ya, lad. You’re welcome to come back anytime. Your grub’s on the house.’
We walk out into the night. It is near freezing cold, with a full moon, fuzzy at the edges. I think there’ll be a heavy frost in the morning, though the stars are amazingly bright. I wonder at the grandness of nature and the depravity of mankind. Why is it we reduce everything to greed and hate and try to settle all with our fists?
Caleb Soul chuckles quietly beside me.
‘What’s the joke?’ I ask.
‘By Jesus, if the mob didn’t know before, they’ll certainly know Black Hawk is in town by breakfast tomorrow! If we’d paid those ruffians, they couldn’t have done any better for us.’
When we get to our tent, I can see no light from inside and
I wonder if Tommo is asleep. But he is not there and I can only think he has gone some place else to smoke his opium.
The landlady’s cat comes up and I feed it a slice of mutton. Then the woman herself appears, rubbing her eyes. ‘Too late fer tea. No fire, I’m sorry, lads.’
It is bright moonlight and she can see the plate of meat and potatoes I hold. Her eyes grow big. I take two slices of mutton and a large potato as Tommo’s share and hand the rest of the plate to her. She snatches it and scuttles back into her bark hut. ‘Gawd bless yer! Gawd bless yer!’ she murmurs as she goes. The tabby follows her back into the hut, no doubt thinking to get himself another share, though I don’t like his chances.
It is not much past seven o’clock and I take some of the hay Caleb has ordered to the horses. Caleb joins me and we sit in the trap, while he smokes a pipe.
Since Caleb has learnt of my plan to fight the Lightning Bolt, he has become my most ardent supporter. He knows that we are on this trip in the hope that Tommo will raise the money for our stake at a card game or two, and that promoting the match will bring the punters to Tommo’s table. My brother has arranged with Mr Sparrow that we be allowed to drum up interest in the fight—though this is normally his and Fat Fred’s domain. He readily agreed—no doubt thinking it a sign of how vainglorious I have become. Caleb does not like to see anything approached in an ad hoc manner, even gambling, and he now turns his mind to how best to stir up interest in the fight before Tommo sets up a game.
‘There’s a cove who does printing in Yass. We’ll have handbills printed!’ he says eagerly, then leans back. ‘I can see it now.’ He enthusiastically describes it for me.
PRIZE FIGHT!
HEAVYWEIGHT CHAMPIONSHIP!
BLACK HAWK,
heavyweight champion of the Colony of New South Wales, to fight
THE LIGHTNING BOLT,
champion of all Ireland and Great Britain!
Tommo and Hawk Page 50
