Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  Time and location soon to be announced.

  Caleb looks well pleased with himself and takes a puff from his pipe. ‘That ought to get the tongues wagging. I’ll take the trap into Yass tomorrow, get the handbills done and announce that you’ll meet the punters on Sunday morning at ten o’clock outside the George Hotel.’ Caleb knocks his pipe out against the heel of his boot. ‘I’ll leave before dawn. I’d better get some sleep.’

  I clear my throat. ‘Caleb, it is most kind of you to help us, but Tommo is in charge of all the plans. I’d be most obliged if you would discuss it first with him.’

  Even in the moonlight I see the look of disappointment that crosses Caleb Soul’s face.

  ‘I feel sure Tommo will agree with your idea, Caleb,’ I say quickly. ‘And it will help us find punters for Tommo’s cardgames as well, that is, if you see fit to take the handbills on as a project. It’s just that I don’t like to do things without my brother being involved.’

  Caleb is silent for a moment. ‘Quite right, Hawk. I didn’t mean to interfere,’ he says at last.

  ‘Caleb, please, we are most grateful that you should care enough to assist us.’

  My friend seems suitably mollified. ‘I’ll wake you in the morning, see what Tommo thinks, eh?’ He climbs down from the trap and disappears into the interior of the tent.

  There is no wood for a fire so I take my blanket from the carriage and wrap it around me. I sit on a tree stump, waiting for Tommo to come home. The cat appears again to keep me company, purring and brushing against my leg.

  By nine o’clock, it is eerily quiet. As we have seen, the river has run near dry and its banks have been churned to clay, and so there are none of those sounds of the night which are usually heard near a stream. No crickets hum or frogs croak. I hear no hoot of an owl nor the throaty hiss and rattle of the opossum.

  The miners, who work from dawn to dusk, are asleep only moments after they eat. The diggings are brutally hard work, and men spend most of their days up to their knees in mud and water. Bouts of dysentery caused by the poor water are common, along with a terrible eye condition known as sandy blight. Because their tents are roughly made—usually just a single tarpaulin held aloft by wattle poles—the miners often sleep in wet blankets, even in the freezing cold of winter. Some do not even trouble to remove their muddy boots, and footrot is a complaint common to all.

  Though Caleb Soul assures me there is gambling and drinking aplenty in the grog shanties, brothels, eating tents and pubs, there is absolute quiet where we have pitched our tent. I go to fetch another blanket. I can do nothing to find Tommo, who could be anywhere—the diggings stretch five miles in any direction. The full moon’s silver light spreads over the desolate landscape. As ten o’clock draws near, an idea comes to my anxious mind.

  I go to the tent and waken Caleb. He sits up quickly.

  ‘What is it?’ he asks groggily.

  ‘Caleb, how much opium did you give Tommo for this trip?’

  Caleb Soul scratches his head. ‘A few ounces—all I could obtain.’

  ‘How long would that last?’

  ‘Depends. For severe pain, a few days.’

  ‘And for smoking? In an opium pipe?’ I try to pull the answer from him.

  ‘I can’t rightly say, I have never smoked it.’

  I think back on Tommo’s state of agitation when he left me today. It can mean only one thing. Tommo did not have a sufficient supply of opium. The craving has come upon him and I would guess he has gone to the Chinese encampment to try to get more. I decide I cannot wait here any longer and must go after him. I have a strong feeling my twin is in danger.

  I go to the trap and from among Tommo’s things, I take his fighting axe. He has not used it since we have been in Sydney but still keeps it razor sharp. I push the axe into my belt and pull my two blankets over me. Then I set out in the bright moonlight towards the celestial encampment, which is about a mile to the north of the diggings and somewhat clear of the European settlement.

  A heavy frost has fallen. The ground clunks under my boots and, though I now have both blankets wrapped about me, a chill seeps into my bones. I walk over a short rise and come upon the camp of the Mongolians. All lies perfectly still in the moonlight. Two Chinamen, about thirty feet away, guard the camp. They huddle in their blankets near a small brazier to keep warm. As soon as they see me, they leap to their feet, their blankets dropping from them as they flee, yelling strange imprecations at the top of their voices.

  Soon there are people everywhere as they rush from their tents and humpies while I stand quite still, not knowing what to do next.

  ‘Ho!’ I say. ‘Ho, there!’ I lift my arm out from under the blanket. ‘Don’t panic!’ I shout. ‘I mean no harm.’ It dawns on me how I must appear. I am just over seven foot tall, and the blankets drape about my shoulders like a ghost’s cloak. My face is clearly visible in the moonlight, black with strange signs carved upon it. I must look like a monster!

  Some of the Chinese have stopped a little distance from me—no doubt thinking themselves safe with plenty of time to run should this ghost devil suddenly advance upon them. I remove the blankets so they might see me standing like a human. ‘Friend!’ I shout. ‘I am a friend of the Chinaman!’ Nevertheless, some at the back of the throng start to run, perhaps seeing Tommo’s axe stuck into my belt. But some of the braver souls hold their ground.

  ‘Friend of the Chinaman!’ I shout again. In the earlier panic, an old man has fallen on the path near me and no one has dared go to his rescue. I carry this ancient Mongolian back to where my blankets are and I cover him with one of these. ‘Friend of the Chinaman!’ I repeat as I rise.

  One man breaks from the group and walks towards me, to the shouts of warning from those watching. He stops perhaps ten feet away and brings his hands together to his chest, bowing deeply. I can see that his knees are shaking.

  ‘Friend?’ he says, trying to smile.

  ‘Aye, friend!’ I assure him, smiling. He moves forward to shake my hand and in an instant I am thrown onto my back, my head hitting the ground hard.

  It is some moments before I recover, to find six men sitting upon me and a dozen more crowded around. I think that maybe they will kill me. Curiously, I am not afraid and through my mind flashes an imagined bill poster:

  GIANT NIGGER JEW KILLED BY MONGOLIAN HORDES!

  I start to laugh. After what Tommo and I have been through, this is a stupid way to die.

  To my surprise the celestials crowded about me also begin to laugh. I get up and dust down my breeches—looking for the Chinaman who has thrown me to the ground. I pat him on the back and grin. ‘Good! Very good!’ Then I lift him into the air above my head and twirl him around, before putting him down again. This time we shake hands like gentlemen.

  ‘Friend,’ says he.

  ‘Friend,’ say I.

  It is too cold to stand around and slowly the crowd disperses, but for four whom I take to be the leaders.

  Now I find myself in difficulty. How shall I tell them I am looking for Tommo?

  ‘Do any here speak English?’ I ask. ‘English, speak English?’

  It is soon apparent that none do, even my new-found friend. One of them hands me a black bottle. I do not as a rule drink spirits but now I take a deep swig. I cough as the brandy burns down my throat and warms my stomach, and hand it back with a smile. My hosts smile too. They give me back my blanket, the one I used to cover the old man. Still, I have no way of asking them how he is.

  Then, from nowhere, a woman is pushed towards me. I can see she is European but cannot judge her age. She is wrapped in a torn blanket, and her eyes are sunk deep into her skull so that I cannot see them but for bright pinpricks within dark sockets. Her skin is drawn yellow and taut, and her nose is half eaten away. Her lips draw back in a snarl to show black, rotting teeth.

  One of the Chinese prods her and jabbers something. ‘Inlish!’ he says to me.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ I ask th
e woman. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Sally, sir,’ she answers in no more than a whisper. Her face may be that of an old crone’s but her voice is a young girl’s.

  ‘How old are you, Sally?’

  ‘Twenty, I thinks, sir.’

  I have heard how young women are caught up in the craving for the Devil’s Smoke and how they come to the Mongolians for opium and then cannot leave, paying for the poppy with their bodies until they die in some wretched hovel.

  I know full well that there are lots of Sallys, but this is the first of them I’ve seen. She is clearly beyond all hope of recovering from the addiction. I know I am speaking to someone who will soon be dead and that she seeks no salvation from me beyond the price of her next pipe.

  I feel desperately sorry for the poor creature, but I am also relieved. Possibly she knows where Tommo is.

  ‘I am looking for my brother who seeks to buy opium. Have you seen him, Sally?’ I say gently.

  ‘There’s no nigger here, sir.’

  ‘No, he is not black. A small man, not taller than you, fair hair and blue eyes.’

  ‘I dunno, sir. I can’t rightly say,’ Sally shrugs.

  ‘Can’t say what? You have not seen him?’

  ‘Sir, I needs two shillings to eat,’ she whispers.

  I take a florin from my pocket and hand it to her. Sally’s hand comes out to grasp it, but the moment she takes the coin the Chinaman standing beside her strikes at her wrist and the florin goes flying. He picks it up and hands it back to me. Sally cowers and whimpers.

  ‘I’ll give it to you later,’ I assure her. ‘Have you seen my brother?’

  ‘There’s someone like what you said,’ she replies. She is shivering, rubbing her arms, just as I’ve seen Tommo do.

  ‘Can you take me to him please?’

  She looks at the men around her as though to ask permission. So I point to her, then to myself, and then back to Sally. The Chinamen laugh. They must believe I want to sleep with her. They nod their heads, and I bow to each respectfully. Now I take Sally by the bony shoulder and she leads me through a maze of tents until we come to a miserable hut made of bark slabs and hessian sacks. She parts the sackcloth and I must stoop to enter a smallish room, the floor of which is covered in filthy rags. In the light of three wax candles placed on an upturned log, I see two naked females lying on the floor. Their carcasses are stripped so bare of flesh that I can see their veins through their translucent skins. Between them lies Tommo, also naked. One of the wretches is holding a pipe to his mouth. Though his eyes are closed, his lips make a soft sucking noise, like that of a newborn pup. White smoke curls slowly upwards from his nostrils.

  ‘That him?’ Sally asks, her voice now bolder than before.

  I nod, unable to speak.

  ‘Give us the money, then!’ She holds out her claw and I give her the florin. ‘More!’ she demands. I am too shocked to resist and hand her a pound note, not caring.

  As she takes the money, a bundle of rags and hair and ancient skin scuttles from a dark corner to snatch the note from Sally’s hand. It is a Chinaman, or perhaps a woman, I cannot tell. It hands Sally a pipe and a small wad of opium and as quickly as it appeared, vanishes back into the darkness beyond the candlelight.

  Sally unclasps her ragged blanket and I see that she too is naked. She does not look at me but sinks to her knees beside the candles. She begins to work a small dob of opium around the point of what looks like a steel knitting needle, then she holds it to the candle flame.

  ‘Tommo!’ I call.

  Both hags look up at me but say nothing. Tommo does not respond. ‘Tommo!’ I say again, this time more gently, bending down over him. Pushing one of the wretches away, I kneel beside my twin and shake him. My brother is as limp as a rag doll.

  ‘He dreams,’ says one or other of the hags. ‘He’ll not wake in an hour or even two.’ She reaches across and touches me on the shoulder. ‘You want me? Two shillings!’

  ‘Where are his clothes!’ I say through clenched teeth. She shrugs and points. I rise and move into the corner she indicates, and now I see the creature there, toothless, its mouth open with fear. It holds out Tommo’s clothes in its claws. I take them and search through the pockets for his purse. It is missing. I grab the creature and hold my hand out, but it does nothing in response. Then I see it has been squatting upon a small lacquer box, about twelve inches square.

  I take up the box and force open the lid. Inside is Tommo’s purse. The rest of the space is filled with small parcels of opium tied in bamboo leaves. I scoop up two handfuls of the opium parcels and put them in my pocket, dropping some money into the now half-empty box in exchange.

  Meanwhile Sally has fixed her pipe and is on her haunches pulling at it. The two wretches have the other pipe, which is spent, and now they pester Sally until she hands them the wad. They have forgotten I am here and can think of nothing but their craving.

  I wrap poor Tommo, still unconscious, in both blankets. His clothes I stuff inside my shirt, stained and stiff with blood from the fight at the eating tent. I tie the laces of his boots together and hang them around my neck. Then I pick up my twin, horrified at how light he is. I push aside the hessian-sack door and carry him out into the night.

  The moon is at its zenith and it is almost as clear as day as I begin to walk out of the camp. By some miracle I am not lost in the maze and soon find my way back from whence I came. To my surprise, the four Chinese are still standing beside the brazier and they rise as I approach. I put Tommo down, though he is light enough, and shake their hands. They now know why I have come and nod their heads in sympathy.

  ‘Me, Wong Ka Leung,’ says the Mongolian who threw me to the ground.

  ‘Me, Hawk Solomon,’ I say.

  ‘Friend!’ they all chorus.

  It is not these men’s fault, I realise, that Tommo suffers so. It is the fault of greed.

  ‘Goodbye, Wong Ka Leung,’ I say and shake his hand solemnly again. We both bow deeply to one another.

  I pick up Tommo and sling him across my shoulders, walking over the small rise. As soon as I am out of sight, and beyond the hearing of the Mongolians, I burst into tears. Tommo breathes deeply, then sighs against my back. I think of Mary and all her hopes, of her love for me, for Tommo, for both of us—her two precious boys! ’Oh Mama, whatever shall become of us?’ I sob.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  TOMMO

  Lambing Flat

  30 June 1861

  It is early Sunday morning and we’ve been in the goldfields just over a week. I’ve slept badly and am up early, wandering through the diggings. The day’s very still and several of the miners I pass reckons there might be snow in the air.

  The Sabbath be the one day of the week the authorities don’t allow work at the diggings, what’s very funny when you thinks about it, ‘cause the miners use this day to get themselves drunk as lords. Then o’ course they fights and carouses for as long as they can. Sunday be the most unholy day of the week!

  Just last Sunday a priest come up from Melbourne to hear confession and say mass for the Irish. They was given plenty o’ warning of the good father’s arrival and a church and confessional was specially erected out of canvas, but not a single bloke presented himself for the absolving of sins and the taking of the wafer and wine. Some wag reckons that the Pope, upon hearing of this shameful event, will rename Lambing Flat ‘Sod ’em and T’morrer’. The ‘sod ‘em’ is for not attending mass and ‘t’morrer’, the day after the Sabbath, is when they’ll all be excommunicated and condemned to hell.

  Caleb Soul returned from Yass earlier in the week and brought with him the handbills announcing a meeting for the punters to see Black Hawk. The venue is the Great Eastern Hotel, as it’s one of the few proper buildings of Lambing Flat. It’s away from the diggings and the river, and is a favourite meeting place among the miners.

  Caleb has arranged a rough timber platform for Hawk to stand on. Thank God, though cold, it’s a day
o’ bright sunshine, otherwise my brother might be a little chilly! He’s to strip to the waist and wear a bright red cummerbund so that all may see he’s in the very best physical condition. To show his strength, he’ll challenge anyone in the crowd to arm-wrestling, taking a new opponent every ten minutes. Hawk don’t much like the idea, saying it be boastful, but Caleb and me told him that were the whole idea! Anyhow, he’s agreed to do it.

  We has put up the handbills everywhere—in the grog shanties, brothels and pubs as well as the chophouses and about the miners’ fires where they cooks their meat and damper.

  Already there’s a strong rivalry among the men, with the Irish going for their own man, the Lightning Bolt, and t’others going for Hawk. Hawk’s become somewhat of a hero after giving the ruffians a walloping the night they attacked the waiter. Turned out they was Irish and now all the Irish has made the ‘Nigger’ their sworn enemy. As Caleb Soul says, ‘It could not be a better situation if we tried.’

  Since that night, there’s been some muttering about the Irish boyos taking revenge. Hawk’s been warned to have a few stout men with him when he presents himself this morning. I’m a bit worried for him, but Hawk insists we goes ahead as planned. ‘I can’t scuttle away like a cockroach on the Nankin Maiden when they make the slightest threat! I must face this if I’m to face the Bolt!’

  This morning’s turnout promises to be a big un. The Miners’ League, what has been formed to protest against the presence of the Chinese at the diggings, will be there. The League has as many as two thousand men in their membership along with a brass band, for they likes a bit of a march. I’ve heard how it’s made up of different chapters, each with a banner showing the diggings they hail from. There’s Blackbutt Gully, Tipperary Hill, Possum Creek, and the like.

  They’ll be marching behind their leaders and carrying their bright banners with pride, so the whole thing’ll look like a bleedin’ carnival. Caleb has even paid ’em to play a tune or two at Hawk’s appearance!