Tommo & Hawk (66 page)

'What?' Callaghan grumbles.

Makepeace shrugs, safe behind his bar. 'As you wish, take it or leave it.'

'It'll be fine,' I says.

'Bloody hell it will!' Jonah growls. 'Fine is it? It'll be just fine for you to pay it, laddy.'

'Oh, and another five pounds to cover breakages. Returnable o' course, if nothing's damaged!' Makepeace adds.

After each of us puts down our share, Callaghan and me walks out into the bright, crisp sunlight and I sticks out me hand. 'See ya t'morrer, then.' He ignores me, spitting to the side o' his boots as he walks away. 'Charming!' I exclaims. 'Real nice to know ya, Callaghan!'

'Fuck off!' he says, not looking back.

Well, I thinks to meself, everything's going just right and dandy for yours truly. Now I'll go and see how Hawk's faring.

Hawk still worries about me too much, I reckon. When I tells him about me game coming up, he looks most worried. 'Tommo, Caleb Soul says these men are dangerous. They don't dig for gold but live by robbing others of their dust. Two of the brutes I subdued in Felix's eating-house were from their gang, or so I was told.'

I shrugs. 'Cards is funny. If you win against a villain and they think it's kosher, or they can't work out how you done it, you got their respect. It's sort of honour among thieves.'

'Do these men know this?' Hawks asks. 'I'd best come with you to make sure.'

'Hawk, let me go on me own!'

'What if something happens?'

'If you comes with me, o' course something will happen!' says I. 'This time you've got to stay a mile away. Them Callaghans don't know I'm yer brother, only that I works for Caleb.'

'What about today, then? They'll see you with me, won't they?'

'Caleb can handle the show with you. He'll love to spruik it. I'll just be in the crowd watching. Cheering you on, Hawk!' I can see Hawk ain't happy about letting me go alone to the game, but he knows that it's our best chance to raise the gelt.

'Tommo, be careful, won't you?'

'Course I will, big brother,' I say.

It's near noon, and already there's a big crowd outside the Great Eastern Hotel waiting to see Hawk, a brisk trade going on at the bar. It's about time for Hawk to meet the punters. He walks out and I can see his head sticking up nearly two foot above the crowd. His black shoulders, scarred from O'Hara's knotted rope, shine ebony in the sunlight. He turns and smiles, showing a row of gleaming white teeth. They be most unusual at our age when most men's teeth is yellow from tobacco-chewing and pipe-smoking. Hawk's Maori tattoos give him the look of a black prince or warrior.

As he wades through the crowd, I admire his huge shoulders and narrow waist. His legs is like tree trunks, but he is trim at the ankle and can move surprisingly quick for such a big fellow. He's bulging with muscle everywhere - a result of all his work hoisting barrels at Tucker & Co. And his stomach's like a washboard. I can't believe the Irishman won't tremble when he sees him in the ring.

Hawk climbs the platform to cheers and boos from the crowd. I can tell from their murmurs that they's struck with his massive size. Just as I walks up to join the mob, the Miners' League marches in and their band strikes up. I reckon there must be more than two thousand of 'em all up. They play a marching tune with cries of 'Roll up! Roll up!' from those behind the banners. It is a grand sight and everyone claps as they comes to a halt. A single drum marks time and at the command of each section leader, each group falls out.

Meanwhile Hawk stands on the platform like a black general surveying his troops. With blokes from the Miners' League joining it, the crowd is huge. Caleb Soul has got up on the platform beside Hawk. He brings a hailing funnel to his mouth and calls for silence. When at last the mob settles down, he nods to someone at the foot of the platform. There's the roll of a kettledrum.

'Diggers and gentlemen!' he proclaims. 'I give you the next world champion in the division of heavyweight - the inestimable, pugilistic, ferocious and undefeated Black Hawk, champion of the colony of New South Wales!'

The crowd cheers and then a voice near the platform calls out, 'Garn, tell us how many fights 'e's 'ad!'

'Only recently discovered, the Black Hawk has beaten the redoubtable and famous heavyweight, Ben Dunn!' Caleb bellows over the crowd's laughter, not missing a beat.

'Who?' shouts the same wag, to more laughter.

'You, sir,' says Caleb, pointing to the man, 'step up and let's see your form. Up here, lad!' he indicates the platform. A small man, not much bigger than me, climbs up, with Caleb lending him a hand.

'What's your name?' Caleb asks.

'Pat Malone.' The little cove grins.

'How about you arm-wrestle Black Hawk, Pat Malone? Five pounds to you if you win!' Caleb says.

The little cove don't back down. 'Can I stand up and use both arms?' he asks, quick as a flash. Caleb looks at Hawk, who nods. I ain't so sure it's a good idea. Though small, the man's a miner, hardened to manual work. With the use o' both his arms and his body-weight he won't be easy to beat.

The crowd grows quiet as Hawk sits at the arm-wrestling table. The miner takes up his position, his legs wide apart, and grasps Hawk's hand in both of his. Caleb holds up his bandanna. 'Take the strain!' The bandanna drops. 'Go!'

The little cove is no shirker and he keeps Hawk's hand vertical. Then me brother's arm starts to go down, and the crowd begins to shout their encouragement.

The miner is gaining on him and the mob thinks he's gunna win, so they shouts him on. Hawk's knuckles is about to touch the deck when he gives a great grunt and swings his arm up. He pushes the little bloke backwards so hard that the miner loses his balance and goes flying off the edge of the platform, into the crowd. It's an amazing feat of strength.

Hawk rises quickly to see if Pat Malone's been hurt. He pulls him gently back onto the platform. The little miner seems no worse for his fall, and Hawk lifts his challenger's arm as if declaring him the real winner. Then me big brother lifts Mr Malone high above his head and the crowd cheers at this show o' sportsmanship. He puts the miner down and they shakes hands like the best o' friends.

Caleb holds up a five-pound banknote for all to see. 'Five pounds to Pat Malone for having a go!' he shouts. 'Let's have three cheers for the miners, lads!' The crowd is completely won over.

'Shit, that's another fiver I has to win,' I mutters to meself, but Caleb has done good. The band strikes up a rousing song.

Caleb now announces that Hawk will talk. 'Hear from the champion himself!' He hands the hailing funnel to Hawk. The crowd draw closer so that they hears his every word.

'Gentlemen! I thank you for your time. It's grand to be among so many friends.' There's more cheers and boos. 'Let me tell you about the Irishman, the Lightning Bolt.'

The fighter's fellow countrymen raise a great swell o' noise at his name and Hawk waits 'til they has quieted down. 'My worthy opponent is better known as the Bolt, because he can take a great hammering to the head and yet remain true to his metal.' The Irish like this remark and I can see they'll store it up to repeat a thousand times. 'He is the champion of Ireland and Britain and there is much speculation that he cannot be beaten by anyone in this colony or any other in the Empire! He is a most formidable adversary.'

Hawk points to Pat Malone, what's sitting on the edge of the platform. 'It is quite true, as my little friend here says, that I lack experience in the prize ring and my stamina has yet to be tested. Some say it was a lucky punch that knocked out Ben Dunn.' Hawk pauses a moment. 'Ben Dunn himself has been heard to espouse this theory!'

A roar of laughter goes up from the crowd and I can see they is warming to my twin. He waits for it to die down before continuing. 'I admit, Mr Dunn was most tired, having just fought five rounds. But those who speculate on these things and know better than I say that the Irishman will take Ben Dunn with one arm tied behind his back and a glass of good Irish whiskey in the other.'

The Irish in the crowd cheers wildly. 'So, if you are an Irishman I will reluctantly accept that your wagers will not be placed on me. If, on the other hand, you are an Englishman, you may well be in two minds, not wishing the Irishman to win, but not too sure of the big nigger, either!'

Most know what Hawk says is true and they admires him for it. Hawk takes the hailing funnel from his mouth and smiles, 'til the laughter and clapping settles. 'But if you are an Australian, then you will know we are a new breed of men and not given to easy surrender!'

The crowd rises to a new peak of excitement at this and it takes some time to calm down again. 'In my favour, I have my size and, if you will allow me to say so, a great determination to win. I trust you to make up your own minds about me and not to be swayed overly much by the bookmakers' odds! I thank you for hearing me out. May your efforts reward you with gold aplenty!'

Thunderous applause and cheering follows as me brother ends, and the band strikes up 'The Wild Colonial Boy'. There's men about me what has tears in their eyes. It's a brilliant piece o' work. Hawk's pulled off what no amount of vainglorious bragging could do, for these ordinary blokes knows sincerity and the honest truth when they hears it.

Hawk arm-wrestles half a dozen or so miners, one directly after t'other, with no rest in between. He beats all six. But the seventh, a big man, wins 'cause Hawk is knackered. These are men what works hard with picks and shovels and ain't no milksops. 'Luck of the Irish!' Caleb shouts, as he hands over five quid. He thanks the crowd once more and the show is over. Now it is left to me to do the rest with Jonah Callaghan's mob.

The meeting of the Miners' League is to take place at two. The men has been drinking steadily all morning and many is starting to fall about. Hawk wants me to rest in our tent for he sees how tired I am after my bad night's sleep. I don't say no. Sleeping during the day comes natural to me!

I stops at the butcher's on me way and buys two pounds o' chops and a quarter o' chopped liver. When I gets back to the tent I calls out to Lucy, our landlady. She be a widow what tries to make a living as a washerwoman. If she has a surname, she ain't giving it to us. 'Just Lucy,' she replied when we asked. 'Me husband were a right bastard when he was alive. I don't see I has to carry the burden o' his name now 'e's dead, does I?'

So our private name for her is Just Lucy. 'Lucy, I brought something for the moggy!' I shouts as soon as I gets back. She's out of her bark hut quick smart, carrying the mangy cat what seems to be her only company. 'Mornin', Tommo.' She squints up at the pale sun. 'Or is it afternoon? It's me day orf, no washing on the Sabbath, so I's kipped in a bit.'

'Here, chopped liver and chops for the tabby.' I hand her the meat and she lets the cat jump from her arms. She unwraps it careful, like it were a late Christmas present.

'Cat can't eat six chops, Tommo!' she says soft.

'Sorry Lucy, I doesn't know much about cats. You'll have to find some other use for them chops.' Just Lucy don't like charity. Since the tea and sugar Hawk bought her, she's been trying to do our washing and cooking.

'Yer a good boy, Tommo.'

'Nah, I just likes cats! They don't give a bugger for no one, like me!'

'A likely story! How'd ya go with the packs of cards at the hotel, Tommo?' she asks, dropping a lump of the chopped liver at her feet for the cat.

'Perfect, Lucy. Matter o' fact, couldn't have done better meself.' I take out a pound and hand it to her. 'It's what I promised if it worked, so this ain't charity.'

'Ten shillings you promised, Tommo!'

'Ten shillings a pack!' I says.

Just Lucy shakes her head but takes the money and puts it in her pocket. I see her eyes getting a bit wet.

'No, no, don't cry, Lucy!' I says in alarm. 'It's yours well earned. How long did ya have to wait in Jeremiah Neep's shop?'

'All Saturday afternoon, almost. About five o'clock, in comes a young lad and asks for two packs o' DeLarue cards.

'"DeLarue, eh?" Mr Neep says. "Where's you from, lad?"

'"Great Eastern Hotel," the boy says. "Mr Chubb sent me, sir."

'"Must be an important game. Sold a couple o' the selfsame packs yesterday. Don't get much call for DeLarue, too expensive, they is."

'"Dunno how come, sir," says the boy. "Mr Chubb just said they must be them cards, no other."

'I'm standing like you's told me, right next to the shelf where the playing cards is kept. I puts yer two decks where you said, on the top. Then Mr Neep comes over. "Here we are, then. Right on the top they is, the last two." He takes yer two packs and wraps them up proper and gives them to the lad, what pays 'im ten shillings. He sends the boy away with a bright red sucker from a jar.'

'And Mr Neep ain't suspicious, you standing in the shop all afternoon?'

'Nah,' says Just Lucy. 'He be a decent man. I asks him if I can stay there so as to ask customers if they wants their washing done.' She grins. 'I got two new customers out of it, too! Took Mr Neep's dust coat 'ome to wash, for his kindness, like!'

'Well it were nicely done, Lucy.'

Just Lucy looks at me. 'Tommo, why'd ya give Jeremiah Neep back the two packs o' cards you bought yesterday, them brand new and not ever been opened?'

I points to the moggy what's busy eating the liver. 'Cat's got me tongue, Lucy,' I says, laughing.

'Oh, sorry, always were a bit of a stickybeak. Too curious for me own good.'

'It ain't that, Lucy. What you don't know you can't be hurt by if someone should come asking questions.'

'You mean I didn't never go into Mr Neep's shop, 'cept to find new customers for washing?'

'That's right, Lucy. That's the bonus earned for keeping your gob shut.'

'Happy to oblige, Tommo. Fancy a nice chop fer ya tea?'

'Maybe when I wakes up. Got to get a few winks.'

'I'll see yer not disturbed,' she promises.

*

Well, I does get disturbed. About three o'clock Just Lucy herself sticks her head in and shouts, 'Tommo, it's the miners, they's marching on the Chinamen's camp!'