Authors: Bryce Courtenay
Tommo is an example of this. He has suffered too much and has been cheated out of his rightful share of childhood, its natural expectations and excitements. He has grown up too soon and thus is bitter and cynical.
But what of the others like him, the street urchins who hunt in feral packs around Hobart Town? Those brats who look at you with snotted noses and old, tired eyes, their only ability calculating the gain which might be made from your presence amongst them. Are they still children? Unlike Tommo, they are neither bitter nor cynical, for they expect nothing of life, only their certain death at the hands of others like them, or at the end of the hangman's rope. Perhaps the moment of manhood or womanhood is the moment when we give up hope for ourselves?
The feral children of Hobart Town are the flotsam on the tide of humanity. If the clergyman, judge, teacher and merchant - those four wise corners which frame our noble society - are to be believed, there is no hope to be held for any of them.
In the eyes of the clergyman, they are lost souls, doomed to a short life of no virtue and a pauper's grave. The judge believes it is his bounden duty to punish such delinquent brats for the sins they commit against their fellow man. To the teacher, they are simply the dull-minded infants who pay no heed in lessons and are quickly left behind. To the merchant, they are an easy source of stolen pennies, to be set upon by dogs when they beg for charity.
Yet if these pitiable slack-jawed children had been granted a childhood of love, decency and some useful learning, they might well have passed naturally into maturity and proved themselves as good as any other person. Even poor Tommo had the early benefit of love and teaching before we were kidnapped. Whilst I was fortunately returned to Mary quite soon thereafter, receiving her love and with it the opportunity to learn, Tommo spent his next seven years amongst some of the vilest of the human tribe. He has retained his intelligence, which was early formed, and is now only backward in its application. What he has lost is the ability to love and trust.
I fret for those lost children of Hobart Town and every other town, and I fret for my brother. I feel saddened and somehow responsible that I was saved, while my twin suffered. It's perhaps one reason why I am with him now, forsaking Mary. It is to care for Tommo and teach him what I know so that together we might turn back the clock and restore the love and trust he has lost.
At times, though, I wonder whether I am rescuing Tommo or he is rescuing me. Have I run away from Mary? Since rescuing me from the wild man, she wishes to know my whereabouts at every moment and seeks to direct my efforts at every turn. Mary loves me with all her heart but thinks me disadvantaged in two ways: I am only a black man and I have no voice to speak for myself. She sees herself as my protector and as my voice, and it would be ever thus had I remained with her in Hobart Town.
How then should I test myself? How then should I come to know my own character, whether I am good or bad, strong or weak? Do my dreams for the future exist only because I am a privileged creature and have no knowledge of the true nature of men? All these questions I think of on our voyage.
In the end, I confess that I have longed for an adventure such as this. When I heard that the Nankin Maiden was in port I was already well aware of Tommo's discontent. I believed that if only Tommo and I were on an American whaling ship which did not permit grog, then he would be safe, and we would both be embarked upon a grand adventure. When Mary bade us gone, I acted on this notion.
Perhaps whaling is in our blood? This is a question I also hope to answer. Our fathers were whalemen - Tommo's a giant Red Indian by the name of Tomahawk and mine an even bigger black man by the name of Black Boss Cape Town.
Ikey had told us how we were conceived as a result of that legendary night when the two harpooners wrestled for the singular favours of the giant whore, Sperm Whale Sally. Our mother was said to be imbued with the spirit of the whale, and those who coupled with her won good fortune for their vessel on the hunt. Yet only two men had succeeded in bedding her and sailing under the 'True Blue' flag which bestowed her blessing. These men were Tommo's father and mine. When the whaling season brought both their ships into port at the same time, each man was determined to claim her for his own. But in the end, neither man alone was strong enough for Sally and, to heal the rivalry between them, she gave herself to both. It is from this loving that twins were born, one white and the other black, one tiny and one huge, one Tommo and the other me.
When we were born and Ikey adopted us, he wrote to the Royal Society in London, hoping to gain some fame from this remarkable birth. They replied that while the fertilising of the one female egg by seed from two different males is most unusual, it was not unknown to happen among whores where numerous and near simultaneous couplings took place, and that it was not a matter of sufficient interest for their record books. Ikey always said that if our mother had been a duchess instead of a whore they'd have taken more notice and we'd be famous.
Knowing our birthright, it was only natural that I should choose a whaling ship for Tommo and me to sail on. All on board the Nankin Maiden have heard the legend of Sperm Whale Sally, and some old salts claim they know the two giant whalemen, though none has heard of, or seen, either for several years, and none knows we are their sons.
I am lost in these recollections when there is a shout from high above me. It is Tommo, high-pitched and much excited, shouting that he has seen a spout. 'Thar she blo-o-o-o-ows! Thar she blo-o-o-o-o-ows!' he bellows down at the top of his voice. Then the other two lookouts start shouting as they too see the whales.
For a few moments nothing appears to happen, then the whole ship springs to life, like a dozing animal suddenly surprised. My recent thoughts tumble into oblivion as I jump to my feet to play my part in the whale chase to come.
Seb Rawlings, the fourth mate, has not yet included me in the crew of the whaleboat he captains. Instead he has selected William Lanney to serve as the fifth crewman along with four Maori whalemen led by Hammerhead Jack, an impressive giant of a man.
I am the 'stand-by' and must ensure that all the equipment needed in the boat for a whale hunt is kept in good working order and made ready. Now I climb in while it is still attached to the davits to make one last inspection before the crew is lowered into the sea.
I check everything thoroughly, though there is scarcely time. The fast launching of the whaleboats is of great concern to Captain O'Hara. Quickly I scan the two-thirds-inch manila rope in the aft barrel. Only yesterday I examined every inch of this line for fraying before folding it back myself, so I know all two hundred fathoms to be in good order. My secret mark is still upon it which means it has not been tampered with. Below me on deck I hear Hammerhead Jack lead his men in some sort of savage war cry, a ritual of theirs.
I check the splices to the two harpoons which will be attached to the line by means of short warps, and then look over the harpoons themselves. They are of the new double-barbed Temple iron which rotates ninety degrees within the flesh of the whale to form a T-shape which will not pull out. I examine the three lances and the five pulling oars, the steering oar and the paddles. I check that they are sound and that the rowlocks are well fixed. I make sure that the boat piggin is not holed, that three gallons of drinking water in a canvas bag are on board for the men, and that the two boat knives which are attached to marlin line are stowed. Finally I see that the small lug sail is in place with a spare roll of canvas. All is ship-shape. There are over forty articles in a whaleboat and I cannot inspect them all now, though I have done so as part of my watch on the previous day. I am climbing down from the davits in haste when I hear Billy Lanney beseeching Hammerhead Jack.
'I go crew, Jack! Me back be tickety-boo, number one!' Billy says in some anguish.
'Let me see your back then, Billy!' a voice demands from behind us. To my surprise it is not Rawlings' and I turn to see the first mate, Crawlin Nestbyte, standing in front of the little Aborigine.
Billy Lanney shakes his head vigorously. 'You no must see, boss! Rowing me can do! No plurry problems!' He swings his arms about like a windmill to show that they are not troubled by the wounds to his back.
As I drop onto the deck where the whaleboat crew are gathered, Hammerhead Jack grabs me by the shoulders and pushes me forward, smiling at Crawlin Nestbyte. 'Him, Ork, him good! He be crew, boss!'
Nestbyte hesitates. Hammerhead Jack releases me and, after removing Billy's hat which he drops to the deck, he grabs Billy's canvas blouse. He jerks it roughly over Billy's head and then lifts Billy bodily, spinning him around in the air and planting him down again so that his naked back is facing the first mate.
At the sight of Billy's back Nestbyte grins broadly. 'Ah, a spine well worthy of God's wrath!' he says happily, leaning forward to make a closer examination. ' "I am not mocked, sayeth the Lord,"' he pronounces proudly, and steps back well satisfied.
My horror at what I see must show clearly upon my face. Billy's back is a great yellow and purple suppuration with maggots among the deep furrows of his infected wounds.
Hammerhead Jack shakes his head in commiseration, jerking his thumb in Billy's direction. 'Him, Billy, brave man!' Then he clucks his tongue twice. 'Not come, boss, too much sick to row boat!' He says this firmly, stabbing a large finger at Crawlin Nestbyte's chest, and pointing to me. 'Ork, him come!'
Nestbyte does not much like Hammerhead Jack's demand, and anger clouds his expression. His fists bunch at his side. But then he seems to think better of it and his hands unclench. Though the first mate is by most standards a big man, the Maori is more than a head taller than he. Besides, there is not much time and the other boats to portside have already been launched.
'Watch thy tongue, kanaka bastard!' is all he says to Hammerhead Jack. Then he turns to me. 'Well, well, if it isn't Mr Rawlings' fine nigger pupil! High time to see if thou art a good nigger or a gutless one, eh? Mr Rawlings hath the tropical fever and Captain O'Hara is himself indisposed. It will be my privilege to break thee in... or break thee - which shall it be, I wonder?'
I smile, though I have a great desire to smash Nestbyte's teeth into the back of his throat. It is just my luck that both Rawlings and O'Hara are indisposed!
'Him good! Ork good nigger,' Hammerhead Jack says and laughs happily, not in the least concerned by the first mate's admonishment. He slaps me again on the back.
Hammerhead Jack is truly a huge man. He is taller by four inches or more than I, and is also wider of girth and in the barrel of his chest. He has a long face and square jaw which are off-set by the height and flat surface of his protruding brow. This already extraordinary visage is framed by two great sweeps of hair which rise upwards and then hook down at the back. They are separated by an inch-wide scar which runs like a roadway from the front to the back of his skull, giving his hair the appearance of the claws of a carpenter's hammer, which is where Hammerhead Jack's name comes from.
At our first meeting Hammerhead Jack was much taken by the scar about my neck, pointing to his own scar and then running a finger around my neck, carefully tracing the silver ribbon of tissue. Then he shook my hand vigorously to indicate that we had in common a mutilation which, it was plain to see, he regarded as most handsome in appearance.
Our whaleboat is being lowered and we scramble overboard and into its bows as it passes the level of the top deck. Hammerhead Jack and myself are the last in, following the first mate.
The men working the falls lower us into the water with a great splash. Without thinking I take my place on the thwart, on the far side of the boat immediately behind Hammerhead Jack at the bow. He turns and gives me a great grin, pleased as Punch. 'Good Ork!' he says. The other three Maori laugh. 'Good Ork!' they shout, welcoming me to the crew and ignoring the scowling first mate who has taken up the sweep oar to steer us.
I would have felt more honoured if it had been Seb Rawlings who had chosen me. Mr Rawlings is no angel, a hard man, but he is fair in most things and respected by the men.
Nestbyte, on the other hand, is a proper bastard, a bully-boy who is much disliked for his harsh punishment of the smallest offences. It is said he is an expert with the blade and he carries an American bowie knife on his belt. If someone should so much as challenge him, he will pull it out and fight them.
'I'll take the bastard with me axe any day he wants,' Tommo boasts, but I have never seen my twin fighting with his axe and it is my earnest hope I never shall.
Sometimes the first mate is referred to as 'Creepy Crawlin' as he will frequently creep around the decks at night with a whale-oil lamp, hoping to find men at sodomy. When he catches two men at it, he has the permission of Captain O'Hara for a most heinous punishment. First the offenders are held down and a spoonful of ground Chinese chilli peppers is inserted up their arses. Their hands are then tied behind their backs and they are allowed to go for the night. If any should render them aid in their agony as the peppers burn their insides, they too will receive the same treatment. The following morning at muster the offenders are given fifty lashes, inflicted by the first mate's own hand. Then, with their backs open and bleeding, they are made to walk the main deck with huge bags of salt tied about their necks by a cord. The bags rest on their backs, leaking salt into their open wounds by means of small apertures. Their wounds aflame, they must walk until they drop from exhaustion. Nestbyte repeats this torture of chilli and floggings every day for a week, with the victims still required to complete a full watch each day.
After this, each offender is issued with a brass neck-plate bearing the inscription, 'A Son of Sodom' and under this the words, 'I am not worthy of God's redemption'. Those who have been caught are named Brass Bimbos by the rest of the whalemen, and there are half a dozen or more on board who wear this attachment. They do so without shame, as if it is a badge of honour, hard-earned - which, I suppose, is true enough!