Solomon's Song (8 page)

‘Oh dear, we are the proper gentleman then, aren’t we! No need to be uppity,’ the midwife reproves him. Then adds cheerfully, ‘Well, must be on me way then, plenty to do, folk breeding like mice, makes a nice change to stitch up a gentleman’s ear ’stead of a torn pussy.’

The following morning, leaving Hinetitama locked in her room in the tavern, Hawk bathes and, wearing clean linen, visits a Dr Spencer in a more respectable part of town who examines his ear and pronounces Mrs Pike’s work rough but adequate. He is a Scotsman in his fifties with a large belly and a talkative manner to go with it.

He chats as he examines Hawk’s ear and then treats his wound with a solution of carbolic acid to stave off infection. ‘Stitches, sutures we calls them in the profession, fascinating study, what. Been done since time out o’ mind, Ancient Sumerians, Egyptians, Greeks, Romans all did much the same as your Mrs Pike, horsehair! Nothing wrong with that, first-class material.’ He pauses as he attempts to wipe away a crusting of dried blood. ‘Now if you’d have come to me, m’boy, I’d have used catgut, recommended by the great Doctor Lister himself. Easy to work and doesn’t break. If this had been a scalp wound I might have tried something else completely, plaiting.’ He looks up at Hawk expectantly, waiting for his reaction.

Hawk, who is only half listening to the good doctor’s prattle, feels compelled to say something. ‘Plaiting? Like a girl’s hair?’

‘You heard me right, m’boy. Plaiting. Worked in America once, New York, in the slums of the Bronx where getting your head split open was more frequent than getting a hot breakfast. College chappy, doctor in the Civil War, McGraw, Irishman, nice fellow, apt to drink a bit, hands unsteady, not much chop for stitching, never did it, got his young assistant to plait the hair on either side of the wound together, worked like a charm, union by plaiting, no shaving, stitching, plastering and an excellent result if you ask me, learned it in the American Army, thinks it was probably borrowed from the Red Indians.’

All this is said without a pause and Hawk, feeling he must respond to such verbosity, laughs, puts his hand to his head, fingering his short, negroid, unplaitable hair. ‘Not much good if you’re a nigger,’ he says.

‘By George! I never thought of that!’ the doctor replies. ‘An excellent observation if I may say so, sir.’

Hawk grins, grateful that he has been elevated to ’sir’, says quietly, ‘From what I’ve read of the American Civil War it is unlikely they’d have stopped to suture a nigger, Dr Spencer.’

‘Quite right, quite right, poor old negro was what the fight was all about though God knows, the niggers don’t seem to have gained much benefit from the victory.’

‘Doctor, of a more immediate concern, how do I rid a head of hair of lice and nits without shaving it off?’

‘Good Lord, m’boy, there’s no nits in your hair, I’d have spotted them a mile off if they were there.’

‘Not for me,’ Hawk replies, growing impatient with the loquacious medical man.

‘Oh, in that case you would purchase from any chemist shop a solution of half five per cent oleate of mercury and half ether.’ The doctor then proceeds to show Hawk how the delousing might be done.

Leaving the doctor, who has given him a bottle of permanganate of potash to prevent infection to his ear, Hawk takes a pony trap into the centre of town and, with some embarrassment to himself and the young shop assistants concerned, purchases a suitable gown, bonnet, boots, hosiery and underwear for Tommo’s daughter at Kirkaldie and Stains emporium. He includes with his purchases a cake of perfumed soap and a towel. As a small apology for his clumsy treatment the previous day, he also buys a bottle of toilet water and a scarf to cover the noticeable bruise on Hinetitama’s neck. After these awkward purchases Hawk visits a nearby chemist shop and purchases the delousing solution.

The tavern where they have spent the night has no washing facilities for women so Hawk takes Hinetitama, together with all her packages, to the public bathhouse. He waits outside while she gives herself a good scrubbing down and carefully explains to the female bathhouse attendant how he wishes to delouse her hair.

‘Gotta shave it, mister. Ain’t no other way. Shave it right orf then wash the ‘ead in pariffin,’ the woman says.

Hawk produces a florin. ‘Do as I say and there’s another of these for you, missus.’

The woman sighs, ‘It’s your money, sir.’

‘Oh, and burn her old clothes,’ Hawk adds.

‘Burn ‘em? Seem orright t’me.’

‘Just do as I say, please.’

The woman clucks her tongue but protests no further. ‘Cost yer sixpence.’

Delousing Hinetitama’s hair is a most laborious process involving a towel, the chemist’s solution, and a fine-tooth comb, which the woman calls a nit-comb. Tommo’s daughter’s hair is washed several times but when the process is complete her hair shines long and beautiful.

They sail out of Wellington Harbour on the evening tide, Hawk having purchased the last two available cabins from the Union Steamship Co. The Wakatipu, a screw steamer of 1158 tons, will take just five days to reach Sydney.

*

Hinetitama sulks in her cabin for the first two days. On the third she emerges, having cut and stitched and hemmed the overlarge gown Hawk has purchased for her with needle and thread borrowed from one of the ladies in the next-door cabin through the intermediary services of a young cabin steward smitten by her beauty. It now fits her slender young body and tiny waist almost to perfection. Though by no means mollified, she behaves politely enough towards her uncle while offering no conversation whatsoever to any of the other passengers.

Hawk, for his part, does not expect her to apologise to him or even necessarily forgive him for rescuing her. She has not been asked if she will accompany him to Tasmania and he has, he supposes, effectively kidnapped her.

But as Hinetitama’s strong young body recovers, seemingly without any harmful effects from the abuse it has received from bad grog and poor living, her naturally friendly disposition returns and she is soon her cheerful self again, talking to all and sundry and looking a picture.

Hinetitama actually seems hopeful and excited and sings all day, to the enchantment of the Maori crew who soon grow to love her for her informality and friendliness and treat her like the princess they observe she is.

Hawk though finds himself increasingly despondent. First Tommo, a drunkard at fourteen, and now his daughter is well and truly headed up the same path. Finally, after four days at sea and a day’s voyage out of Sydney, Hinetitama unexpectedly comes to his cabin and swears she will take the pledge when they arrive in Hobart.

Hawk affects a great delight at this and embraces her warmly, though not without a sense of pessimism. He is experienced enough not to hope for too much and has come to realise that there is a great deal of Tommo in his daughter.

Upon arrival in Sydney Hawk learns that Mary’s own trading vessel, the Waterloo, a three-masted trading schooner of one hundred feet, is in port and due to return to Hobart in two days. He informs the captain they will take passage on her back to Hobart.

Hawk has some business with Tucker & Co. and also visits his old friend Caleb Soul who has a thriving business as a chemist and manufacturing pharmacist with several of his own successful potions and prescriptions on the market. The elderly Caleb welcomes him warmly and Hawk learns that he has also opened a large retail chemist outlet with the help of his son, Washington Handley, after whom he has named the business. ‘Caleb Soul sounds like the combination of a turtle and a fish, not a good name for a business dealing in potions and cures, Washington H. Soul be much the sturdier proposition,’ he explains to Hawk.

Hawk also visits Ah Wong, the Chinaman, and his family whom he rescued at Lambing Flat during the riots. Now a prosperous businessman, Ah Wong imports rice and silk from China. He creates a banquet for Hawk and Hinetitama to which he invites Caleb Soul and his son. After the truly splendid repast he brings in his three sons to be introduced to Hawk. He points to his eldest son, ‘He born Lambing Flat you lescue him, his name Hawk,’ Ah Wong says proudly. Then he points to his second son, ‘Number two son yes please, this Tommo.’ Hawk laughs, pleased at the compliment to himself and Tommo. ‘Number three son,’ Ah Wong continues, ‘he name Solomon.’

Hawk grins while Caleb and his son Washington clap enthusiastically, ‘Three fine sons, eh, Ah Wong, no daughters then?’ Hawk says.

Ah Wong claps his hands and says something to a servant who leaves the room and presently returns accompanied by a young girl of about twelve. ‘This me daughter, her name, Maggie Pi Wong.’

Hawk is hard put to prevent himself from weeping and as they take their departure from the little Chinaman Hawk embraces his old friend. ‘You’re a good bloke, Ah Wong, I wish you well.’

Ah Wong looks up at Hawk. ‘You want from me, you get anytime for sure, certainly, by Jove!’

The remainder of their time is spent shopping and going to the theatre, both new experiences for Tommo’s daughter and each is an occasion in which she plainly takes great delight. In the David Jones Emporium she chooses her shoes and two new gowns with such enormous enthusiasm that the salesgirls, who crowd about her, are as delighted as she is when she discovers something, no matter how small, to her liking. Her taste is plainly for the exotic and she chooses her gowns for their brightness and eschews the dull browns and blacks and deep blues which are the current fashion. The bonnet she buys is simply a riot of artificial blossoms and gaily coloured ribbons and bows.

Hawk cannot help being constantly reminded of Maggie Pye whom he still misses every day of his life and he takes great pleasure in having his beautiful niece on his arm, who, like Maggie herself, barely reaches his waist. Hinetitama’s love for Hawk is too old for her to sustain her resentment at her kidnapping and they seem once again the greatest of friends.

The Waterloo possesses no spare cabins and the captain is forced to forsake his own for Hinetitama. He and Hawk join the crew in their quarters. The Waterloo trades hardwood and hops with the colony of New South Wales and returns with Scotch whisky and good quality brandy as well as an imported English gin. All is purchased from Tucker & Co. in Sydney to be sold in the fifty tied public houses that The Potato Factory Brewery now owns in Hobart, Launceston, Burnie and throughout rural Tasmania.

The mercantile empire built by Mary Abacus and with Hawk’s own considerable business acumen embraces timber concessions, a glass bottle factory, several hop and barley farms, fifty taverns and public houses, fifteen business properties in Hobart and Launceston, the majority shareholding in a tin mine at Mount Bischoff and, as the jewel in the crown, The Potato Factory Brewery, the third largest of its kind after the Cascade Brewery in Hobart and Mr James Boag’s Launceston brewery.

Mary, once a convict, is now the richest woman in Tasmania and by virtue of her wealth has made it to the top of the business classes, though she is not yet accepted by the true merinos, a rejection which causes her not the slightest anxiety.

As the sole owner of one of its largest private fortunes and one not to be sneezed at on the mainland Mary reckons she has sufficient status and respect for one lifetime. She is a canny and prudent business woman and everything she touches seems to turn to gold.

Mary Abacus has long since discovered that, in this new land, power and influence are not attached to social status but to money. She lacks only one thing to make her life’s work complete, she desperately requires grandchildren to continue after Hawk is gone. Hawk, in turn, has steadfastly put off being married and now it is unlikely that he will father children. Hinetitama is her last hope.

‘How shall I match the little savage with a good family even if her dowry should be most attractive?’ she constantly laments. ‘We must have her here to teach her manners and the customs of civilised people.’

Hawk recalls one momentous occasion when Mary’s frustration brought matters to a head.

‘Tommo were no judge of what was good for his child,’ she announced. They were seated on the porch of Mary’s mansion set in the foothills of Mount Wellington. Below them all of Hobart stretched out along the shores of the great Derwent River, which in the late afternoon sunshine lay burnished, the colour of sheet metal. ‘How can you let her grow up among them savages when she could be brought up proper with no expense spared and married with a dowry to attract the very best of mannered blood? Why may I not have my own lineage?’ Mary Abacus asks petulantly and makes a sweeping gesture with a tiny clawlike hand to include all of Hobart below. ‘So they may inherit all this and I may pass away knowing I have worked to some avail!’

‘Mama, all this as you put it, is precisely why Tommo wished his daughter to be reared by her own Maori tribe. He would see no virtue in his daughter’s marriage to a true merino. Tommo saw only mongrels around him, he found greed and avarice everywhere. Then he looked into his own character and pronounced it weak. “Hawk, there is bad blood in my veins, you must protect Hinetitama from it,” he said to me. “We must not allow it to come through. She must stay with her tribe until she is of age, you must promise me this.”‘ Hawk shrugs his shoulders. ‘Mama, I promised him as he lay dying. I shall keep that promise until his daughter is twenty-one and I am no longer her guardian.’ He sighs and spreads his hands wide. ‘Then she will make up her own mind.’

‘No, she bleedin’ won’t! She’ll come here to become a lady and settle down and have a family.’

‘Mama, that’s precisely what Tommo feared most.’

‘Feared? Why? This talk of mongrels, bad blood? Is that supposed to be me? Is that what I am, greedy, avaricious? Is that what you think of me?’ Mary screams. ‘Lemme tell you something f’nothing, my boy, everything you see here, everything we’ve got, come from hard work, from the sweat of me brow. What we have, I’ve worked for, day and bleedin’ night, nobody’s done me no favours! And now you’re saying I’m a mongrel! You and Tommo, what I brought up from a pair o’ brats in a basket over Ikey’s arm, is accusing me o’ being greedy and avaricious! Ha! That’s a bleedin’ laugh, that is!’