Tommo & Hawk (65 page)

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!

One of the leaders of the Miners' League, Mr Cameron, told Caleb that if the payment were a subscription fee for the three of us to join, they'd play the whole morning for naught. But we has refused, being most wary o' those who are against the Chinese, what we thinks has done nothing wrong other than to be a different colour.

A special correspondent from the Sydney Morning Herald has come out here incognito to report on the Miners' League and their battle against the celestials. He's said to lurk about the diggings, making up scurrilous lies about the miners. Caleb reckons we should recruit him to our cause but we don't know who he is! Still, if we could encourage the special to add a few lines about Hawk and his fight, that would stir the possum nicely.

The special's pen has already struck some hard blows against the diggers, telling his readers that the Chinese ain't done nothing to the miners and is a most peaceful group. The special also points out that the rough element in the diggings is the real culprits behind the uproar. They make trouble with the Chinese and then steals their claims. Hawk reckons this a very fair point of view, but the mob don't like it one bit.

Meantime I has had meself two card games thanks to Caleb's introductions. The first were with the various shopkeepers, what's among the richest folk in the diggings, and the second were with the sly grog shop owners and publicans, what's not short of a bob either. Yours truly won at both!

Me winnings were ten pounds each time. Twenty pounds is bloody good wages but it falls far short of our ambition. These blokes ain't true gamblers and is too timid with their wagers. We still need another eighty pounds towards the stake - and that don't even begin to cover the cost o' Hawk's training. I got to get one really big game if I'm to have any hope of making this.

Tonight I've a game with the Irish. It ain't one set up by Caleb who has warned me against playing poker with these boyos. 'Tommo, there will not be an honest cove in the game and all of them broadsmen,' he warns. I can hardly tell him that I won't be adding even one per cent of honesty to the game meself! I'd rather take me chances and pit me own talent against villains than play with the duffers what he's lined up.

With only two games played, the word about Tommo is already out among the respectable folk and they's all gun shy, even though I didn't cheat once! At least the rough mob play for big stakes. Besides, I got no choice. We must leave on Tuesday morning to return to Sydney, so this is me last chance.

I first come across this mob I'm gunna play with while passing out handbills at a place called Possum Creek. They's not working a claim and they don't look like they intends to neither. They all sit outside a bark hut playing the flats. I put down a handbill and stop to watch them a while. They's playing whist and one of the players what's thrown his hand in picks up the poster.

'What's it say?' he asks, holding it upside down.

I read the handbill out to them and they all stops to listen.

'By Jaysus, that be clever an' all,' says one o' them. 'The Irishman cannot be beat!'

'Oh? Who says?' I asks.

'I says,' he replies. 'You work for the nigger, then, does yer?'

'Aye,' I replies. 'I helps Mr Caleb.'

Still seated, he grabs me by the shirt front so I'm standing up against him. I'm looking into his foul, grinning mouth of broke teeth. 'That black bastard be askin' fer a hidin', and my oath, he'll be gettin' one at the hands o' the Irish champ!' He shakes me. 'I'm inclined to give you a taste o' what he's in fer! How'd yer like that, eh?'

'Not much,' I admits. 'But I tell you what! If the Irish fight as poorly as they cheats at flats, your man ain't gunna win.'

'What's yer mean?' he growls.

I take out an ace of hearts from his sleeve and a Jack of the same from behind his collar and throws them down in front of his mates.

'Why, ya right bastard, Micky!' they chorus.

'Dunno why you bothered. Whose deck is that?' I point to the cards on the table. All eyes turn to another of the Irishmen. 'Well, it's shaved, ain't it?' I says.

It's a guess o' course. I can't tell from where I'm standing. But the moment I says it I see the sly look in the eye of the one they're all looking at, and I know straight away I be right.

'What's goin' on, then?' one o' the ruffians shouts, throwing his cards down and rising from the bark table to glare at his mate.

'Righto,' I says, me heart in me mouth. 'That's two of yer what's cheating. How about the other three, eh?' Each man looks at the other narrow-eyed. 'Tell ya what,' I suggests, 'let me sit in on yer game. I'll play ya all together, the lot of you against me! What say you, a shilling a point? But if I catches any of ya cheating, ya drops out of the game. If you catches me, I'll double any winnings on the table and it all be yours. Are you game, then, gentlemen?'

Me suggestion's just silly enough, and them's just stupid enough to accept. An hour later, three of them's been tossed out of the game. The other two I clean out too. They look fit to kill when I rise from the table, scooping the pool. Then I hand 'em back their money! 'Sorry gentlemen, but the nigger lover don't play with amateurs.'

The one what grabbed me in the first place has grown very red in the face. He balls his fist. 'Mind yer mouth, laddy,' he growls.

I pretend I ain't scared. 'Know a big game, then? High stakes?' I asks. 'Among yer mates? Someone maybe ya don't like, someone what owes ya? Or perhaps you wants revenge, eh? Tell ya what, gentlemen. If you has the nous to set up a big game, high stakes, I'll cut ya in on ten per cent. But it's got to be real big. How's that, then?'

'Twenty,' says one of 'em.

'Fifteen,' says I.

They agree and we shake on it. I share me black bottle with them and then goes off, telling them they can contact me by leaving a message at the Great Eastern. As I leave I yell, 'Oh, and gentlemen, take me advice, put yer winnings on Black Hawk!'

'Bullshit!' one of 'em shouts, but this time they laughs. 'See ya right soon, Tommo!' another yells after me.

Well, since then they've found me a game with the Callaghan mob, where the stakes are ten pounds in. It's to be held in the Great Eastern Hotel, starting ten o'clock tomorrow night.

Me and Jonah Callaghan, what's leader of the mob, made the booking. Him and me went to see the proprietor of the Great Eastern, Mr Makepeace Chubb. He's a little cove, fat, bald and always with a coating of shiny sweat to his florid face. We inspect a room upstairs, to the back of the hotel. Each of us pays the publican a pound for the arrangements, and then we arrange for him to get in two brand new decks o' cards.

'I've got 'em on sale here,' he volunteers.

'Give us a look then?' Callaghan asks.

The publican returns with two packs of Mermaid Brand.

'What's this shite?' Callaghan growls.

'He's right,' I says to Chubb. 'They has to be DeLarue & Sons.'

'Oh,' says Chubb. 'That serious, is it? I'll have to get 'em in. Jeremiah Neep has them in stock as I recall.'

'We'll be in on Sundee mornin' ter inspect them,' Jonah warns. 'Have pen and ink ready, much obliged.' Though Jonah Callaghan's words seem mild enough, the way he says them ain't at all pleasant.

*

So ten o'clock this morning, accompanied by Jonah Callaghan, I goes to the Great Eastern. Makepeace Chubb is busy out the back and we sends a message we wants to see the flats. A few minutes later, he comes huffing and puffing to the bar, and puts two packs down on the counter in front of us.

'Where's pen and quill?' Callaghan demands.

The publican sighs and leaves to fetch same.

I orders two nobblers of Cape brandy and when they comes, I push one in front o' the Irishman and invite him to inspect the decks. He looks down at the brandy in front of him. 'What's this shite?' Before I can open me mouth he pushes the drink over me. He throws his head back and shouts to the barman, 'Oi, you! Irish!'

'Suit yerself. Only trying to be friendly,' I says, a trifle miffed.

'Yeah, well don't waste yer breath,' he replies. 'Two! With a pint o' best to go with it!' He knocks one nobbier o' whiskey back, chases it with half the beer, then the other Irish whiskey follows and the remainder of the beer. All of this is done straight off, no pause between. Good, I thinks, he'll be drinkin' whiskey and beer all night at the game. It's got to catch up with him unless he be made of cast iron.

Callaghan wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. He then picks up a deck and examines it closely, picking gently at the seals with his fingernail to make sure they's tight closed. He does the same to the second pack of DeLarue. Satisfied, he dips the quill into the ink pot and makes his mark across the seals. I does the same, spending even a little more time at examination before I signs.

We call for the publican and makes him sign across the front of each pack. Then we follow him out the back and into his office, where he has a small safe for miners to keep their gold in. He fiddles with the combination, groaning as he stoops down low with his back to us. With the safe open, he steps aside so that we can see it's empty, 'case we've got any ideas. He puts the two decks into the safe and closes the door, scrambling the combination once again. 'There,' he says, puffing, 'all safe and sound, lads.'

'You'll be sure to see there's plenty o' firewood and the hearth be well lit and the room warm?' I asks. 'We'll be playing in our shirt sleeves rolled up to here.' I indicate the top o' me arm. 'No hats to be worn either.'

'Eh? What's this, then?' Callaghan scowls.

'Just helps to know there ain't no handy sleeve or hat about. I've known cards what had a natural affinity with sleeves and hats. Hand goes under a hat to scratch a louse. Never know what it might find lurking! Could be the king or queen herself. Or an ace may pop out of a coat sleeve, know what I mean?'

Jonah turns and stabs a hard finger in me chest. 'Think we's gunna cheat ya, does ya?'

'It's been known to happen,' says I. 'But I'll find you out if you does.'

'Like hell yer will!'

'Steady on now, lads,' says Makepeace. 'There'll be no cards played in this house if yiz going to fight. A drink on the house with my compliments will settle youse down! Cape and Irish with a chaser, if I remember rightly.'

We follows him through to the bar and he pours the drinks. 'On the house!' he repeats, looking a bit pained. 'Oh yes, and the house takes ten per cent, lads.'