Tommo and Hawk

by Bryce Courtenay

  TOMMO

  The Rocks

  September 1861

  I’m back in New Zealand, walking in the forest with Makareta, when a great noise brings me awake. At first I thinks it’s part o’ me dream, and a pakeha settler’s fired his musket at us again, but then I realise I’m back in Sydney, me beloved Makareta’s dead and it’s someone at the door. The sun is streamin’ in and it’s too early in the day for me to be up, especially after me celebrations of the night before. Yesterday, Mary and Maggie put the squeeze on Mr Sparrow, what I now knows needs the Devil’s Smoke as much as yours truly. I had a good night with the flats after that, and an extra bottle of the Cape besides, and I ain’t too pleased about being waked up early.

  I opens the door and sees Mary there. She is none too happy neither. Seems she were meant to meet Maggie this afternoon, but Maggie never showed. Normally, them two’s together from early morning, but today, Maggie had some other business to see to. She and Mary were to meet at noon—when they were gunna look for a canteen of sterling silver, Mary’s wedding present to Maggie and Hawk. Only Maggie don’t get to the Hero on time. At first, Mary ain’t too concerned. She’s scolded Maggie plenty o’ times about being late, but it’s never done no good—Maggie simply don’t have no sense of time.

  But by two o’clock Mary’s a little worried, so she walks down through the Argyle Cut to Maggie’s rooms above the chophouse. There’s no answer to her knocks on Maggie’s door and so she goes downstairs to the Cut Below. Flo tells her that Maggie were in for a cup of tea and a fresh bread roll at about nine this morning, as is her habit now that she’s up and about in the daytime.

  ‘How were she?’ Mary asks.

  ‘She’s always the same. Whether she be up all night or just woke up, she’s ever cheerful.’ Flo smiles. ‘This mornin’ she said she was gunna let me have a borrow of her wedding dress when I gets married.’

  ‘And then she left?’

  ‘Yes—no, hang on. Me papa come through from the kitchen and brung her a letter what he said were left earlier by a lad. I remembers ‘cause the brat wouldn’t say nothing ‘bout who it were from—just gave him the letter and scarpered.’

  ‘A letter? What sort o’ letter?’ Mary asks.

  ‘Dunno. It were in an envelope, sealed with red wax on the back. I remember me dad handin’ it to her with the blob of red wax uppermost. Then when Maggie turns it I sees the writing on the front’s a bit scratchy and untidy-like, not nice like Hawk’s.’

  ‘Did she read it?’

  ‘Nah, Maggie don’t read too well. She can make out what’s on the page but it ain’t easy. She has ter take her time, like. So she laughs and says she’ll read it later. Then she kissed me like she always does. “Be a good girl then, Flo, but if yiz can’t, for ‘eavens sake be careful!” She always says the same when she’s leaving, ever since I were a little brat.’ Now Flo looks anxious. ‘Is somethin’ wrong, Mrs Abacus?’

  ‘No, girlie, she’s late to meet me, that’s all. So I thought I’d come down and fetch her,’ Mary tells her.

  ‘She’s always late,’ Flo points out hopefully.

  ‘Blimey, don’t I know and all,’ mutters Mary and goes to take her leave. Then she stops. ‘Did she wear a bonnet, like she were going out?’

  ‘She had the magpie nested in her hair what she often wears instead of a bonnet,’ Flo answers.

  Mary goes back to the Hero and waits another hour. By now it’s three o’clock and even Maggie ain’t ever this late. So Mary has come down to where Hawk and I has our lodgings and woken me up. I don’t waste any time and get dressed in a minute.

  ‘Shall we fetch Hawk?’ Mary asks as we leaves the house.

  ‘Nah, we’ll check the pubs first. Maggie said she were gunna thank the boys what led the march on the pub. Hawk give her money to buy them all a drink.’

  ‘Maggie don’t drink during the day, well, not with me she don’t,’ Mary says doubtfully. ‘I has the habit of trying a different brand of ale or beer in Sydney every day ‘case I comes across a blend I likes. She’s never once joined me—always asks for sarsaparilla and a slice of lemon.’

  ‘Maggie be unpredictable, Mama,’ I says to comfort her. ‘Never know for certain what she’ll do next. We’ll go ask around first before we tells Hawk. She’ll turn up, you’ll see. She probably took a gin or two too much and fell asleep.’

  But Mary ain’t convinced. ‘She was that excited about the canteen o’ silver, she’d not have got drunk!’ she insists. Finally she agrees we should check the various pubs around the Rocks. Two hours and eighteen pubs later, we finds out that none o’ the publicans—what all know Maggie well—have seen her today. It’s nearly six o’clock by the time we gets to the Rose and Crown where the owner, Daniel ‘Pinchgut’ Lewis, tells us that Maggie were meant to have a drink with the lads here at eleven o’clock but never showed.

  ‘Can’t think what’s happened,’ he frowns. ‘Maggie’s always late, but she turns up in the end.’ He chuckles. ‘Matter o’ fact it be good for business, Maggie always being late. Folk’ll wait for her, guessing at her excuses, what be that marvellous inventive that it’s worth the waiting no matter how late she be. And o’ course they keeps buying drinks in the meanwhile!’

  It’s now well past six o’clock. Weary of soul and terrible worried, we hurries back to the Hero of Waterloo where we’ll meet Hawk. We still holds out hope of finding Maggie there but it ain’t much of a hope.

  We hasn’t yet reached the Hero when suddenly I stops. Mary can see that I be shivering with me arms clasped about me chest, rubbing and scratching the tops, near the shoulders, like I’m cold and itchy.

  ‘Mama,’ I says, ‘I’ll be just the half hour then I’ll be back. Tell Hawk not to do nothing ‘til I returns.’ I looks pleadingly at Mary. ‘Half an hour won’t make no difference if Maggie ain’t there.’

  Mary nods. She’s never seen me before when the craving for the poppy has took me, but she knows at once what it is. ‘We’ll wait for you, Tommo. Mind you come back quick now.’ She’s fighting to keep back her tears.

  ‘I loves you, Mama,’ I says, reaching for her hands.

  ‘I love you too, Tommo, with all me heart,’ she says, squeezing mine.

  The sun is setting and there be a golden blaze across the harbour. The water has turned a deep red. As I starts to walk away, Mary calls after me and I stops and turns. ‘What, Mama?’

  ‘Tommo, you were the sweetest little boy,’ Mary says, then smiles. ‘You still is.’

  Chinatown be only a few minutes walk from where I left Mary. I feel such a weak bastard, having to get me fix of Devil’s Smoke. But in the past few weeks the pain in me head has been near constant. By nightfall I can’t bear it no longer and am just waitin’ for Ho Kwong Choi’s pipe of blissful relief.

  Hawk has often found me moaning with me head in me hands. He knows me wound’s getting worse, for he hears me cry out in me sleep as I thrash about having nightmares of the most frightening kind. He’s always asking about me head and when I tells him not to worry, gets angry.

  ‘Tommo, you lie, I can feel it,’ he says, touching his hands to the exact spot where the pain be.

  But I says nothing. He is so happy with Maggie and if he knows how bad it is for me I fear it would spoil his happiness. I meself am happy for them. I have grown terrible fond o’ Maggie meself and thinks what pretty children they shall have.

  But my own pain has grown such that I has even lost at cards once or twice. This has mostly been in the early hours when me afternoon pipe has worn off and I am quite beside meself with the ache in me noggin. These days I’ve took to visiting Tang Wing Hung’s opium den in the mornings before I returns home, as well as in the evenings. Without the relief of the poppy I’d go quite mad.

  Sometimes a dizziness takes hold of me and I cannot see and must sit down in a hurry. I tell all this to Ho Kwong Choi, who nods and clucks his tongue as he prepares the paste for me pipe. It be stupid, I know, telling me troubles to a C
hinaman what can hardly speak English, but he has looked into my dreams and heard me cry out. Sometimes, when I wake after a pipe, I find he has put a cool cloth to me head. He has seen poor bastards like me before and much worse, I reckon. He’s a mate, in a way, but still I can’t read the diamond pricks of light in them eyes what’s cut like slivers in his paper-creased face.

  Now, as I gets to the opium den, Ho Kwong Choi comes forward, his hands clasped together and his head bowed in greeting. I bow to him too.

  ‘Ho Kwong Choi, you got to be quick tonight, then I come back later, maybe eleven o’clock, you savvy?’

  He nods his head and shows me to a couch before shuffling away. He seems most solemn tonight. Me head is nearly took off by the pain as he prepares the pearl at the end of the needle, roasting it in the flame, before handing me the opium pipe. After the fourth or fifth puff, I starts to feel a bit better. By the time the pain is took away, not much more than fifteen minutes has passed. Soon I’m feeling bright enough, though slightly light of head.

  Ho Kwong Choi brings me jasmine tea after my pipe and stands there waiting and watching as I sips it as fast as I can. Suddenly he says, ‘Tommo, you go Mr Sparrow.’

  ‘What?’ I asks.

  ‘Quick, quick!’ He takes the bowl of tea from my hands. ‘Now!’ He is shaking slightly. ‘Hurry up!’

  ‘What is it, Ho Kwong Choi?’ I grip him by the shoulders, even though he could kill me in an instant if he wished.

  ‘Missy Maggie! She with Mr Sparrow!’ He trembles under me hands. ‘You go now, hurry, hurry!’

  Still light-headed, I run from the opium den out into the back lane and then all the way to our lodgings, where I tear me blanket roll apart. I rip off the oil cloth what keeps my axe from rusting. Frantic, I take off the leather sheath that protects the head. I test the blade on my thumb and a tiny drop o’ blood appears. It is razor sharp. I put the axe back in its holster what fits under me jacket and then I starts to run towards Bridge Street.

  By the time I get to The World Turned Upside Down I’m panting and has to catch me breath for a few minutes on the pavement opposite the pub. A watchman what’s sitting there with a lantern beside him sees me and shouts, ‘Move on, mate, I don’t want no trouble.’

  I duck across the street towards the pub, only I does it a little higher up so the watchman can’t see me. I dodge between two hackneys and a toff what’s drunk and driving his own sulky, lashing at the poor nag. The gaslight here is dim, so I’m in the shadows as I cross. I stay in the darkness as I make my way towards the hotel—waiting for the right moment, before nipping into the dark alley what runs alongside it. There’s a door here what leads straight up to Mr Sparrow’s lodging. I’ve used it often enough in the past, when I come to see him. This time though I’m gunna have to break it down with my axe, I thinks.

  I put my hand to the door to find where the weakest spot in the panelling might be, and to me surprise it swings open. I push it a little further and peers into the dark passage. I can hear the faint sound of the drinkers in the public bar through the wall beside the staircase at the end. There’s no light in the passageway and I can’t see a thing. Odd there’s none of Mr Sparrow’s lads about neither. Is it a trap, I wonder? If some of his more vicious lads be hiding in the dark, I’d have no chance to defend meself if an arm with a knife were to suddenly appear.

  I take out my axe as quietly as I can, and move forward slowly towards the dark stairway. My heart is boomin’ like a drum and I’m terrified I’ll be jumped any moment.

  One hand on the banister, the other holding my fighting axe at the ready, I feel my way carefully upwards. The steps are wooden boards and creak at every step I take. I be certain Mr Sparrow’s boys are hidden in the blackness of the landing, watching for me, waiting to cut me down.

  At last I get to the top of the stairs and I wait a full minute to steady meself before slowly going along the passage. My heart’s thumping in my throat as if to jump clean out of me mouth. I has my back pressed to the wall and I hold my axe with both hands in front o’ me face.

  My shoulder touches the frame of the first door but I know it ain’t the one I need and I pass across it. I reach the second door frame, what I knows to be the parlour door of Mr Sparrow’s rooms. I decide it’s the third door I want, and so I pass across the second also, quietly testing the door handle, what’s locked.

  When I reach the third door, I try the handle and it turns easily in my hand. Taking a deep breath, I push it open. It creaks like the timbers on a ship at sea and I near faints with fright. I wait for the count o’ ten, but there’s still no noise from within. I go through and am in Mr Sparrow’s parlour.

  I take two steps further and stand on the Chinee silk carpet looking about me. The curtains be open and one window pane is broken. There’s a faint light coming in from the gaslight ‘cross the road and, compared to the dark passage, the parlour seems quite light. A dreadful smell of shit hangs in the air.

  Then I see the settee, a dark shape in the centre of the room. On it lies a huge form, what from its size looks like Fat Fred though it is too dim to be sure. I stand still, listening—but the noise from the street below is too loud for me to hear the rise and fall o’ someone’s breath.

  I move closer to the couch. Swallowing, I put out a hand and touch naked flesh, hairy and cold. It is a huge body lying on its stomach, and I am touching its back. It’s a warm evening yet the flesh is stone cold and dead still. It can be no other than Fat Fred—and he’s carked it.

  I’m sure I’m alone in the room, but I need light to find out what’s happened. I look about, then run me hand across the walls to see if I can find a light fixture. On the far wall, what be in almost complete darkness, I touch a wardrobe. It be the one Mary and Maggie talked to Mr Sparrow through, I’m sure. Finally I comes upon two lamp brackets but with no lantern hanging from them.

  Then I remember the night watchman across the street. I hurries downstairs again and, crossing to where he’s sitting, and offer him half a sov for his hurricane lantern. It’s five times what it’s worth and he all but falls over himself handing it to me. This time, I climb the stairs as quick as I can. I go back into the parlour and turn the lamp wick up.

  Fat Fred’s monstrous carcass is lying on the couch with his great arse up in the air. He is dead and no mistake. The very moment folks die they shits themselves and I sees shit all over the back of Fat Fred’s huge thighs, which is where the terrible stench comes from. His enormous stomach is sunk into the lounge so that the bottom of the springs touch the carpet beneath.

  Then I see them. Lying on the carpet beside the couch are three black-and-white magpie feathers. Just three feathers. A grief takes hold o’ me heart such as I’ve never felt before, not even at me darlin’ Makareta’s death.

  The mongrels have come, and this time I heard no warning. I feel a most terrible pain as though I’ve been stabbed. I starts to moan like an animal, moving frantically ‘round the room, searching for Maggie Pye. That Hawk’s darling Maggie should come to grief at the hands of these bastards be too cruel a fate for anyone to bear. Then I see the wardrobe and suddenly I know what I must find inside it.

  I rush towards it and see there are no knobs or handles on the door. It’s been locked from the outside.

  ‘Ya bastard, ya fucking mongrel bastard!’ I scream and kick the door. Taking up my axe, I smash a large hole in the panelling around the lock. I cut the frame above and below the lock so that the door is free and open it. I can see the faint outlines of a body on the wardrobe floor and now I pick up the lamp and shine it into the dark interior.

  Inside, trussed and gagged so that it be impossible for him to cry out or move an inch, is Johnny Terrible, one eye looking directly up at me. Such is my grief and fury that I immediately swings my axe to take his throat, before it hits me that he ain’t the villain. I turn me wrist and the blade grazes his scalp, sticking into the wood at the back of his head.

  With a grunt, I jerk the blade out. I’ve
already cut free the centre frame of the wardrobe and now I fling open the second door. Johnny Terrible lies huddled at me feet. His legs have been bent backwards so that his boot heels are tucked into his bum and a rope has been lashed around the tops of his thighs and ankles. His hands are also tied behind his back and more rope coiled about his chest and arms. Even his head has been tied so it cannot move. His gag has been pulled so tight that the cloth fills his gob and cuts his mouth.

  Johnny’s face has been badly smashed. His nose is broken and caked with blood what has made a dark stain on the front of his blouse. One eye is completely closed and the scar to his cheek is tattered and raw, newly opened and filled with pus and blood.

  I pull him out of the wardrobe by the ropes around his wrists and see that his hands have gone a deep blue from the tightness of the cord about them. He falls face down upon the carpet.

  I cut the various ropes away with my axe blade. But though Johnny’s free, he can’t move. Bending down, I pulls his legs to straighten ’em and he screams at the pain. I does the same with his arms and then begin to rub his wrists until his fingers start to twitch. I have left his ankles loosely tied so he cannot jump up but must remain where I have dragged him, and I sit him up with his back to the wall.

  Apart from his groans and screams as I pull his legs straight, Johnny ain’t said a word. But now he begins to sob, though almost silently, the tears running down his face and splashing onto his blouse what’s covered in blood.

  I hold the three feathers right up to his eyes.

  ‘Where’s Maggie?’ I says, with cold anger in me voice.

  He tries to speak but his throat must be too parched. I take the lantern and goes into Mr Sparrow’s bedroom, the same where he took me the first day we met. I grab the jug from the washstand what’s half full and, going back, pours the water over Johnny Terrible’s head and into his mouth, so that he nearly chokes.

  ‘Where’s Maggie?’ I says again.

  Johnny still can’t speak but raises his hand slowly and points to Fat Fred.