Authors: Bryce Courtenay
I ain't all that happy about Hawk and Maggie Pye being sweethearts neither. After all, she is a whore, or as the sporting gentlemen o' Sydney would call her, a crinoline cruiser. This is the name for a somewhat higher class o' slag, but still a slag. Crinoline cruisers hang about sporting occasions where respectable women ain't found, like dog fights, bare-knuckle bouts, cockfights, card games, and the horse races at Homebush.
I has to admit though that Hawk seems a happy man these days. He and Maggie has been together more than six months now. When I warn him about catching the pox from her, he nods, with a serious sort o' look on his face, but I know he ain't gunna take no notice of me. He's talking about takin' Maggie back to meet Mary, for Gawd's sake! In fact, the two of them women ain't so unlike. Maggie's bright but also has a terrible quick temper like Mary, and a tongue to put many a tar to shame. But she's witty with it and good company.
Maggie likes her gin, though I be the last to judge her for that. After all, grog comes with the job for us both. Gin and women is often an ugly combination, though, and it don't seem likely to lead to connubial bliss. But Hawk, so sensible and solemn, won't hear no ill spoken of Maggie Pye and thinks the world of her. I tell him not to mention the prospects we has in Tasmania, for he is a man of potential wealth. He promises he won't, and I know it be most important to him that Maggie loves him for hisself. I just hope she ain't a gold digger looking for a life of ease at Hawk's expense. I'm gunna keep a good eye on that Maggie Pye!
As for yours truly, I can't say I fancy any of the women around here. Me darlin' Makareta has spoiled me for the average tart, I reckon, though I don't let me thoughts dwell on her much these days. Nor me daughter, Hinetitama, neither. My new mistress, the opium pipe, be a great help in that regard. It takes away much of me desire for female company too. It's a blessing that it does, for good women be thin on the ground in these parts o' the colony.
Any respectable girl what reaches the age of sixteen gets herself married quick smart. If you sees a younger girl on the arm of a man, you can safely guess she be a slut in apprentice, or one what's been on the game for a few years already.
The Rocks don't hold much hope for the bloke what seeks a lady's companionship. Instead, the Botanical Gardens is where the fashionables of Sydney's fair sex may be found. This be where young toffs go to meet the members of the opposite sex. For a laugh I go up there meself one day. Hawk tells me they ain't really Botanical Gardens - not like the Kew Gardens of London, what's a grand creation with exotic trees and shrubs o' great variety, growing in a green and watered landscape. What we has in Sydney is two rows of stiff gum trees in a long avenue leading into a wasteland of dusty ground. When it's dry, the slightest breeze blows up clouds o' sand and dirt.
But if you go up to these scrawny old Gardens today, you'll see many gay parasols surrounded by young coves dressed in their Sunday best. The female specimens beneath these bright sunshades only show themselves if you can push through their admirers for a closer look. Most has long since passed the summer of their life and make much use of powder and lip rouge and extravagant bonnets. They is expensively attired and bejewelled, their gold trinkets no doubt the gifts of admirers who've failed to make the final journey to the four-poster bed.
At Semicircular Quay, the boats from Europe are always met by scores o' young swells hoping to find, for the purpose of marriage, any single female within five years of their age. At card games and the like, I has heard many a bachelor say that there ain't much choice among Sydney's unmarried ladies. The demand is great, the supply small, and Europe a long way away, so that the poor specimens what does exist are quickly snapped up by the sons o' the goldocracy.
But like I said, I ain't much worried by all this. I'm busy with me cards, me pipe, and when I can get it, me bottle. The life I've taken up with Mr Sparrow don't let me drink during the daylight hours and only a little during my card games at night. Still, I usually glug down the better part of a black bottle before dawn. But I always keep my senses about me, 'specially now I has a new way to ease me pain.
I found the Angel's Kiss the very first night I played cards for Mr Sparrow, in a gambling den owned by Mr Tang Wing Hung. He's an important man among the Chinese what comes to Sydney from the gold diggings. He's tall for a Mongolian, six foot, and thin as a rake. He don't say much but Mr Sparrow reckons there ain't much business among the Chinese what he don't control, and says his bony yellow fingers may be found in many a pie concocted by a Sydney broker or merchant.
That first night in Chinatown, I did exactly what Mr Sparrow told me. I acted the country bumpkin, a wealthy settler's son from Tasmania, innocent of the ways of the world. There were no need for Mr Sparrow to blow a smoke ring so that I might resort to 'other' methods of winning -me skill proved sufficient. I cleaned up a pretty penny and earned five pounds.
By dawn's light, when the game finally came to an end, me head was so painful I couldn't bear it. When he heard about this, Mr Sparrow talked to Tang Wing Hung and I was took into a small room and given the opium pipe. The pain lifted at once and I came away most grateful to the Angel's Kiss.
Hawk is most worried about me new medicine, but I has assured him I use it sparingly and only when me head hurts. The black bottle is still old Tommo's first love!
I am now a solid member of Mr Sparrow's sporting fraternity and Hawk and me is well set up. I earn a fair bit from me card games most nights - though not always so much as five pounds. Mr Sparrow is talkin' of a partnership, now that I've learnt much about what he calls 'the predilections o' sporting gentlemen'. Mr Sparrow dabbles in sports of all kinds: horse races, dog races, cockfights, dog fights, gambling and o' course women and opium. He promises that I shall be a part of all of this if I play me cards right.
In all these months I ain't found a broadsman what can better me and it's grand to have a quid or two. After me first night at the game in Chinatown, I were very glad to see Hawk's smiling phiz outside the pub, as me note had asked. Hawk takes three pounds of the five I've earned. We goes off to a tailor in Pitt Street, by the name of Barney Isaacs. There Hawk pays for a suit o' clothes, two blouses, and two pairs of hose what he's had measured up for himself. He said somethin' about paying his own way, what's a bit of a laugh as it's my earnings what's paying for it! But I don't begrudge him none. As soon as his clobber were made up and boots bought from the Italian bootmaker in Bligh Street, Hawk gets a position as clerk at Tucker & Co. in George Street.
Hawk got the job 'cause of his experience in Mary's brewery and his knowledge of hops and beer. Captain James Tucker, the brother of the founder, William Tucker, is a wine and spirit merchant. Even though Hawk knows little of this side of the liquor trade, Captain Tucker seems pleased to have me brother in his employ. He were once a ship's captain himself and likes the fact that Hawk has been to sea. My twin has proved a careful bookkeeper and is always happy to help out, loading the drays and stacking shelves when times is busy in the warehouse. This counts for a great deal with Captain Tucker, what ain't a man to stand on ceremony and will himself roll up his sleeves when needed.
And so we've made our lives in Sydney. Hawk is still my keeper though I don't see that much of him - only at breakfast when I returns from a game, not always sober, and then again at supper. He puts me to bed after a breakfast of eggs and bacon or fish, and gives me a good dose o' Seidlitz powders so that when I get up on his return from work, I ain't got too much of a hangover. Often when it's just the two of us, he reads to me from newspapers and books. He gets me to do the same, so that I be ever improving, catching up on what I lost all those years in the wilderness.
*
This morning I ain't retiring to bed though, for we are on a family jaunt, making our journey up the river. The prize fight be organised by none other than Fat Fred, Mr Sparrow's henchman and the colony's principal procurer o' prize fights.
Mr Sparrow and Fat Fred can always depend on a big crowd as they are the only proper prize-fight promoters in the colony. Prize fights is against the law and most comes about as a result of a direct challenge from one recognised fighter to another. Then a venue is hastily arranged behind a pub or sly grog shop. When news of the fight spreads by mouth from pub to pub, the bookmakers and amateur oddsmen turn up and the betting begins, the odds changing constantly during the progress o' the contest. Often the ring is simply marked out with stones on the grass and the crowd what gathers around the fight surges backwards and forwards into the ring as the fighters advance and retreat.
Mr Sparrow, however, will tolerate no such higgledy-piggledy set-ups. He 'licenses' - some would say owns - all the bookmakers at his fights and rakes in a percentage from each, closing the betting after the start of the bout. At other fights it ain't unusual, if a favourite looks like he'll be beat, for some of the crowd to storm the ring and declare the fight 'no contest' so's to get their bets back. But Fat Fred has the rings well guarded by ex-pugs and bothermen what are prepared to spill considerable claret if a member o' the crowd comes too close.
A prize fight what's organised by Fat Fred be a most popular event, and despite today's fight being writ up for weeks beforehand in Bell's Life in Sydney, the police don't seem to know of it.
Maggie is much excited at the prospect of the fight and an outing in the country. She has packed a large basket of cold mutton, roast taties, a fresh baked loaf, three bottles of the best beer and some other tidbits from Flo's mum, what is a most excellent cook. Even if the fight be stopped by the Parramatta traps, Maggie promises we shall have us a lovely picnic.
Maggie never works the fights, even though they be a rich fishing ground for Sydney's tarts. Instead, she dresses up in her finest black crinoline with a black-and-white silk bonnet, her 'magpie' colours as she calls them. She takes a great deal o' pleasure from being seen on Hawk's arm at these events. Maggie Pye's become a right dolly bird, cocking a snook at the other girls as they shows their tits in their gaudy silks and wiggles their hips, trolling for a gold fish -what in their lingo means searchin' out a rich bloke!
We are all set to go upriver to Parramatta Town aboard one of the little Billy steamers leaving from the Quay. Maggie has persuaded us not to take the railway what has recently reached Parramatta Town but is still somewhat a novelty. Hawk reckons it'll be nice to be out on the water again and I don't give a bugger which way we goes.
Our steamer seems decked out as though for a festive voyage. She's brightly coloured with a copper funnel and a wide-rimmed chimney, and her shade awnings are of a bright purple and ochre. We're in for a merry time, the boat being full o' folk what's goin' to the fight, though we're calling it a picnic so's to fool any copper who's aboard in disguise.
Just as we're about to cast off, a great noise is heard from the wharf and we see a small tribe of blacks running towards the steamer. They comes on board panting, laughing and cussing, carrying and dragging small children. Several are pulling chains o' kangaroo dogs behind them. They are nearly all drunk and some of the passengers shout to the crew to 'off-load the niggers'. The newcomers climb up the ship's ropes and stumble about the decks.
We is hardly clear of the wharf when some of the black women take off their blankets and start fighting. They's cussing and screaming, rolling, kicking and punching, their blood and snot all over the deck. The kangaroo dogs are barking and the little black urchins are howling their heads off.
To the cheering and yoicking of the rougher folk amongst the white passengers, the women sets to hurting each other. They's pulling out tufts o' hair and one of 'em, a fat gin with breasts hanging to her waist, bites a large piece off her opponent's ear and dances about, holding it aloft for all to see. Meanwhile their husbands go 'round with their hats and begs tuppences off the spectators.
Some of the passengers reckon it's all a grand lead-up to the prize fight this afternoon. But Hawk puts a stop to it. He takes ten shillings from his purse and gives it to the bloke what looks to be their leader, asking that the women stop their scratching and caterwauling. There is some protest from the whites when they see what he is doing, but Hawk ignores them. One fat rowdy shouts, 'Garn then, nigger, leave it off! Let's have a bit o' sport from the black bastards!'
Hawk stops and walks over to this cove. 'What say you and I have a bit of sport, then?' he suggests, and a sick smile grows upon the bloke's phiz.
'Begs your pardon,' he says backing away, as the rest of his mates laugh at him.
The Aboriginal chief carries a large stuffed snakeskin coiled about his neck and seems most impressed with Hawk, what's as black as he is, twice as wide and two foot taller. Hawk ain't afraid to stand up to the white devils neither as they can see. Grabbing a big stick from one of the other men, the Aborigine beats the women over their heads and backs, shouting at 'em in their tongue, 'til they stop fighting and stumbles away to lick their wounds. The chief signals that he wants Hawk to take back his money and, for the sake o' peace, Hawk finally accepts it.
After this, the journey is pleasant enough. I look about the little steamer with interest as we make our way towards Parramatta. Dozens of live ducks, tied by their bright yellow feet, has been thrown upon several trusses of hay. Aft, four pigs grunt and snuffle amongst a pile o' cabbage leaves, and a donkey and two nanny goats are secured by their hind legs to the railings. In one corner I counts twenty wicker baskets of fish, some still alive, bars o' silver in the sunlight.
On either side o' the river the land slopes gently upwards, green from the recent summer rains. The gum trees what grew here not so long ago have all been rooted out and many a stump lies with its tangled roots sprouting like Medusa's head out of a great ball o' red clay. Along the river bank, poplar and willow has taken their place and the hand of civilisation is everywhere to be seen. Farmers have cleared the bush and tilled the land to beyond the horizon. Each farm is much like the one beside it, a homestead sat upon a farmyard square, the borders made up of a windbreak of fruit trees. These be lemons and oranges for the most part, though here and there I sees some quince and pomegranate. In every vegetable garden is cabbages, what must fetch a good price at market to judge by their numbers. Everywhere, there are rows o' green cabbages, each in its own nest of leaves. Sometimes there's a rose garden, what makes a circular patch of flowers at the very centre of the vegetable garden, and Maggie thinks this most romantic.