Tommo & Hawk (61 page)

She sniffs. 'That's different, you're his twin.' For a moment I think she's gunna cry and then what'll I do? 'Anyways he's still a man,' she says, smiling brightly now, her eyes wet. 'Sure you don't want ter eat somethin'? Tea? Nice cuppa tea?' She touches me arm. 'Do you the world. Flo, bring us a nice cuppa, will ya, darlin'?' she calls out loud. 'A pot, two cups!' Then she turns to look at me. 'So, why's you robbin' me of me well-earned sleep, if I might ask? Why's we here without Hawk knowin'?'

'Maggie, have you seen Mr Sparrow yet?'

'T'morrer. Johnny's set it up, t'morrer, six o'clock at his place.'

'Do you think he'll fall for it?'

'Sure, why not? I'm a whore, ain't I?'

'Maggie, what does you really think Hawk's chances are of beating the Bolt?'

Maggie looks at me suspicious. 'What's you saying, Tommo?'

'I mean, you know about prize-fighters and their form. Do you think me brother can take the Bolt?'

Maggie looks at me strangely. 'Tommo, what's this nonsense?'

'Hawk's gunna take a fair walloping. He's gunna be thrashed!'

It's like I've smacked her gob with the back o' me hand. 'No, he ain't! No, he bloody well ain't! Jesus, what's you gettin' at, Tommo?'

I reaches over and grabs her by the arm. 'It's true, Maggie, the Irishman's gunna be too good for Hawk.'

'No! No!' Maggie shakes her head. 'You're wrong, Tommo. Look what Hawk done to Ben Dunn!'

'Maggie, the Irishman could take on Ben Dunn with one hand tied behind his back. Why do you think he's come out here? Let me tell ya, he's come out here to take up a collection for his old age. There ain't a heavy in the colonies what can match him blow for blow, even go five rounds if he's serious!'

'Bull!' Maggie shouts.

Flo brings the tea and hurries away, leaving a plate o' scones and jam.

'Maggie,' I urges, 'you says you loves Hawk. Do you want to see him killed? Be sensible. You know him - he'll keep fighting 'til he's mincemeat!'

Maggie's hands are shaking as she pours the tea. 'Tommo, I've been around the fights a good while, ever since I was a brat. First cove what screwed me when I were ten years old were a fighter - only a featherweight, thank Gawd! I know form when I sees it. Hawk be a champion. Maybe the world champion. The blow what knocked out Ben Dunn lifted him three foot into the flamin' air!'

'Maggie, I know, I saw it. In New Zealand he killed a Maori in a card game with just such a blow.'

'Well then, what's this talk o' him being made mincemeat?'

'Hawk were angry then, just like he were angry with what Ben Dunn done to you. When Hawk's angry 'cause he thinks something's unfair or evil, he can't be stopped, the devil hisself couldn't do it. But that ain't the case here. Hawk ain't angry at the Irishman, he's got no reason to hurt him,'

'Yes he has - Mr Sparrow, he's reason enough!'

'It ain't the same thing. Hawk won't see that beating the livin' daylights out o' the Bolt be the same as beating Mr Sparrow. He'll want t' win, sure enough. But without his terrible anger, he's got no chance to beat him! Hawk is a gentle soul at heart. He ain't naturally mean, and he ain't got the skills in the ring. Put together, that's a recipe for disaster.'

'He can learn to be mean,' Maggie says stubbornly. But her eyes show she sees some sense in what I've just said. 'Johnny Sullivan could teach him.'

'Johnny Sullivan be in cahoots with Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred. He can't train Hawk, not for a fair fight anyhow, you know that.'

'He's me mate, and I know him to be his own man. He'd listen to me I know, he'd change sides,' Maggie protests.

'He's a poppy head. I've seen him at Tang Wing Hung's. He'd be in the pay o' Fat Fred, and that's the same as being owned by Mr Sparrow.'

'Tommo, what's you saying? Are we gunna stop Hawk fighting the Bolt? Throw up the sponge before we even gets in the ring, forget the sting?'

'Nah, nothin' like that.'

'What then?'

'We got to fix the fight, get the Irishman to lay down.'

Maggie bursts into laughter. 'And how's you gunna do that? Jesus, Tommo!'

And that's when I tells her the lot, all that Hawk's asked me not to. I tells her about Mary and us, and about the brewery. And I tells her about me idea for Mary to give us the money to bribe the Irishman. Maggie listens, never taking her eyes off me own and then, to me surprise, she begins to blub softly.

'What's the matter?' I asks.

'I told yiz, didn't I,' she sobs. 'I, I... thought it'd be something wrong what I'd do, but it ain't me, it's him!'

'What d'ya mean, Maggie?' I says, confused. 'Nothing's wrong with Hawk!'

She sniffs, trying hard to stem the tears, knuckling them away from her eyes. 'Yes there is! He's rich, the bastard! That changes everything!' She gulps, then hiccups. 'Oh shit, shit, shit!' she howls.

'Oh, Maggie…' I puts me hand on her arm and tries to comfort her but I never was too good at that sort o' thing, even with me poor Makareta. Now I can see Maggie ain't no gold digger, she loves Hawk any which way. I can't tell her Hawk loves her if he ain't told her hisself - it ain't my place to tell her. But to me surprise I wants to. I sit helpless 'til eventually she calms down.

'Gawd, I must look bloody awful,' she says, blowing her nose. 'So what do you want me to do now, Tommo? Why did ya come here? Does I still see Mr Sparrow?'

'Nothing changes with Mr Sparrow. We've still got to get the punters betting on Hawk and I can't be sure Mary's gunna come good with the money. Hawk and me is going to Lambing Flat so's I can try to win the money at cards.'

'You think you can win what you needs to bribe the Irishman at the gold diggings?' She looks at me astonished.

'No, 'course not. If I'm real lucky, with a bit o' relocation, I may win the rest of the stake and training money for Johnny Heki and Bungarrabbee Jack.'

'Poppy money, more like,' Maggie snaps. 'Ya mean Hawk'll have to fight straight if yer mama don't come good?'

I shrug. 'Well, yes, that's about it.'

Maggie smiles. 'Well, you forgot me one hundred pounds what I'd put in from the loan on this dump.'

I swallows hard. 'Maggie, Hawk won't take it from ya.'

'Ha! See, I told yiz! Rich man don't want to owe no favours to a whore, that's how it is!'

'Maggie, that ain't fair!' I protest. 'That ain't it at all. Hawk knows he might lose!'

Maggie shrugs. 'So? I been broke before, but I ain't never loved someone like I loves him.'

I've got no answer to this one, so I try to change the subject. 'Maggie, will you meet Mary? Look after her if she comes to Sydney when we're away?' I asks.

Maggie's eyes grow large. 'She's coming here? Oh, Jesus no!' She brings both her palms up to cover her mouth. 'I couldn't!' She shakes her head. 'Her, a rich lady, finding out her nice boy has been beddin' a whore what says she loves him! Ooh, can't ya just see it! Her dumpin' a bucket o' shit over me! No, Tommo! Anything else, not that!'

'Maggie, please, Mary ain't like that at all! If you love Hawk, you'll do it,' I begs.

Maggie begins to cry. 'Damn ya, Tommo!' she howls. 'He don't need his mama's money. Hawk could win on his own, I know it!'

Hawk

New South Wales

June 1861

Tommo and I are on the road to Lambing Flat. We have been most fortunate, for we have been given permission by Captain Tucker to accompany Caleb Soul in the Tucker 8c Co. trap to the goldfields. With the right introductions from Caleb, who knows everyone of importance in the diggings, Tommo will be able to arrange a card game quickly. Our hope is to be back in Sydney in no more than three weeks.

Once I had told him about Tommo's terrible pains from his head wound, Caleb Soul kindly procured opium for my brother to take on our journey. I know that he will not talk to anyone of Tommo's addiction. I also hope Caleb will introduce Tommo to some of the big gamblers here and I do not want his reputation tarnished, so I ask Tommo to employ no relocation in his card games.

Tommo is, of course, most indignant that I would even think that he might use such tactics when playing with a bunch of miners.

'Tommo,' I warn, 'there are men here from all around the world. If there are not one or two cardsharps among them, I would be tremendously surprised.'

'And if there is, you still want me to play kosher?'

'If they're not on the straight then you must make up your own mind. It's just that I do not wish Caleb's good name hurt.'

Caleb Soul is of a sanguine disposition, a man who is most interested in sports. He doesn't know yet that I intend to challenge the Irish champion - unless the rumours already circulating in the Rocks have reached his ears. However, I shall tell him of my intentions further down the road and thus explain why we need introductions to a card game where the betting is high enough to earn us some of the stake money.

I must confess, I am full of dreams about the diggings, though I have no desire to search for gold. It seems to me that the true rewards are to be obtained by supplying the men with their needs. If we should win the fight against the Irishman, I have in mind to open a Johnny-all-sorts store, with Maggie and Tommo alongside me. How happy we should be!

Winning the fight is essential to my dreams for the future, although I do not like my chances against the Irishman. But, I tell myself, for all of our sakes, I must win. If Ho Kwong Choi can teach me the Oriental fighting art and if I can absorb sufficient of my opponent's blows long enough to keep me in the fight, I hope that my endurance will see me through. I need to learn enough skills to soften or side-step some of the Irishman's harder blows, until he tires and I can get a decent crack at him.

I am well aware that I won over Ben Dunn because he had already gone five rounds with the Welshman, while I came fresh to the fray. He is demanding a return bout so that he may regain his title. As he puts it, 'I will break every bone in the nigger's overgrown carcass!' For my part, I believe that the title belongs rightly to him and have said so publicly. But he demands an opportunity to earn both his title and his revenge honestly, and will not hear of taking the champion's belt. This I have returned to its makers, J.J. Cohen of George Street, asking them not to engrave my name upon it, but to keep it until Ben Dunn chooses to claim it.

I know that the Bolt, who is vastly more experienced than both Dunn and I, will come well rested to the ring. With the encouragement of the Parramatta Irish ringing in his ears, he will be keen to make a fool of me.

Tommo reports that the Bolt drinks deeply of Irish whiskey, each dram chased down with a pint of beer. He spends most of his nights at cards and thereafter with various of the women procured for him by Mr Sparrow. He has a drinking toast which he often recites to the amusement of all.

Your doctors may boast of their lotions

And ladies may talk of their tea,

But I envy them none of their potions -

It's a pint of best Irish for me.

A doctor may sneer if he pleases.

But the recipe for keeping me frisky

Is the physic that cures all diseases

A bottle of good Irish whiskey.

So to Colleen, Bridget and Mandy,

You may prefer brandy or gin,

But to make a good Irishman randy -

Pour a pint of good whiskey in him!

Maggie keeps a close eye on all the Bolt's doings at the same time as she prepares to talk up mine. Mr Sparrow has accepted her as his informer and she is already busy in the pubs laying the groundwork for tales of my prowess. I fear she herself may even begin to believe the outrageous stories she concocts in bed of a Sunday.

Her favourite is the story of my Zulu ancestry. It seems I am the true grandson of one of the greatest fighting generals of Africa, the mighty warrior Dingane - or so the legend goes! Now that I have decided on prize-fighting, to hear Maggie tell it, my natural instincts have come to the fore, and those who would enter the ring to spar with me should tremble in their boots. I can fight two at a time and such is my speed and ferocity that they seldom last two minutes before crashing to the ground, spitting out teeth as they fall.

In truth, I cannot hope to learn even the most basic rules of fist-fighting in the few months available to me. How will I defend myself against an opponent who is a wily old campaigner, seasoned in every dirty trick of the trade? While I listen with interest to news of the Bolt's slapdash training, I know also that he has more than sixty bouts against his name, some of them against the best prizefighters in the British Isles and Ireland. Even if he is past his prime, for a purse of five hundred pounds he will be sure to give himself a good margin of safety when he enters the ring.

Stamina will be my only chance of success. My legs are often enough described as tree trunks. I hope they will see me through as many rounds as are needed. My strength and endurance must help me to survive in the boxing ring long enough to win.

With this in mind I have developed my own training schedule, quite apart from what I shall be taught by Bungarrabbee Jack and Johnny Heki when I return to Sydney. At Tucker & Co., much of the liquor is stored in a great loft and pulled up by pulley, with fifty gallon barrels of rum and whisky being hoisted by three average-sized men on the rope. Each afternoon, I lever the large casks up to the loft, working the pulley singlehanded, to strengthen my arms. Then I run up the inside stairs to this same loft, carrying two ten-gallon firkins of port each time, one on either shoulder. Every day I spend longer at these exercises.

Captain Tucker knows that I plan to fight the Irishman and has announced himself my keen supporter. He has even employed the services of a physician, Doctor Nathaniel Postlethwaite, to check my weekly progress and allows me to train secretly in the loft.

The road to Bowral and beyond, on which we now travel, is in very poor repair. Since the discovery of gold it has seen much more traffic than was ever intended by its original builders. We pass hundreds of men who are making the journey on foot. Most carry only a swag, although some are equipped with a pick and shovel as well. Moreover, I count fifty-seven drays and carts before we reach Mittagong. These are heavily laden with tents, sluicing rockers, mining tools, bags of flour and sugar, large tins of tea and all sorts of stores and utensils. The drays contain as many as eight men and there are seldom fewer than four aboard a cart. Most men bear firearms, having read in the newspapers that bushrangers abound in these regions. With their equipment, the men of each dray may set up a camp, from where they hope to earn an easy fortune from the generous earth.