Tiger Men (14 page)

Once safely underway, they raised the jib, picking up even more speed, and for the next twenty minutes Mick took great pleasure in showing off his skills. He’d enjoyed sailing light craft with Seamus when they’d been holed up in Rio de Janeiro and Cape Town, the
Maid
taking on provisions and undergoing repairs; Seamus had been a very thorough teacher. Now, with several large ships at anchor in the bay, he tacked from one to the other, manning both the tiller and the spritsail while Jefferson manned the jib, a task which would normally have been that of the forward hand and junior member of a two-man team.

It wasn’t long before Jefferson suggested they turn back. He was more than satisfied with the Irishman’s skill as a helmsman, and clouds were now gathering overhead. ‘We might be in for some rain,’ he said.

In typically perverse fashion, the weather had indeed changed. Hobart Town was renowned for its mercurial weather.

Mick made several tacks on their way back to Battery Point, but they were still quite some distance from the McLagan jetty when Jefferson gave the order to lower the sails.

‘We’ll row from here,’ he said, the ‘we’ clearly meaning that Mick was to row.

Jefferson Powell sincerely hoped young Michael O’Callaghan would pass this final test: he’d taken a liking to the Irishman. He had his doubts, however. As a yachtsman O’Callaghan was more than competent, but how strong was he as an oarsman? He’d have a stiff south-westerly to contend with and he didn’t appear to be carrying much muscle.

Mick turned the vessel into the wind, the canvas flapping wildly, and they lowered the sails.

When the rigging was secured, the men changed positions. Mick settled himself amidships and started to row, while Jefferson sat in the stern, ready to take over when the Irishman’s strength gave out, as he suspected it would.

Mick rowed methodically, concentrating on his breathing and the rhythm of his actions as Seamus had taught him. ‘Let your lungs do the work, Mick,’ he could hear his old friend say, ‘your strength lies in your breathing. Match it to the rhythm, Mick. Match your breath to the rhythm and row with your whole body.’

The wind cut across the vessel’s bow and in order to stay on course he had to favour his starboard oar, but he didn’t once alter his rhythm. He concentrated on the landmarks he’d lined up as sights on the far eastern riverbank and rowed with his whole body as Seamus had taught him.

Small though the boat was, she was sturdy and heavy, but she was also well-crafted and built for a good oarsman. She ploughed cleanly and steadily through the water like a well-trained horse obeying its master.

On and on Mick rowed. He could feel the blood pumping through his body and he could feel his heart pounding with the effort. But his stroke remained constant. Not once did he break the pattern of his breathing and rhythm as he continued to the chant of Seamus’s voice.
Match your breath to the rhythm and row with your whole body. Match your breath to the rhythm and row with your whole body.
He kept his eyes on the opposite bank and his landmarks, but he knew Powell was watching, waiting for him to weaken. He must show no signs of fatigue. On and on he went, following the chant, refusing to alter the pace he had set for his body, and despite the coursing of his blood and the pounding of his heart, he felt he could row forever.

Then, suddenly, they were on the lee side of the point, out of the prevailing wind and in calm water. Mick didn’t stop rowing, but he finally allowed himself to break rhythm enough to look over his right shoulder. Up ahead, off the port side and barely two hundred yards away, was the McLagan jetty. He adjusted his course accordingly, altered his pace and, still inhaling and exhaling in time with each stroke, he rowed slowly and steadily towards it. By the time he’d reached the jetty, he’d recovered from his efforts. Or at least, it appeared that he had. As they came alongside and he stood to secure the bowline, he felt distinctly light-headed and even a little giddy but he managed to conceal it.

Jefferson climbed on to the jetty and took the oars and rigging that Mick passed up to him. He was pleased with the outcome of the test. Young O’Callaghan didn’t appear to have overexerted himself at all: he was obviously stronger than he looked. Whatever the Irishman lacks in muscle he makes up for in stamina, Jefferson thought.

‘Well done, Mr O’Callaghan,’ he said as Mick joined him on the jetty, ‘well done all round.’

‘Thank you, sir.’

‘Let’s dispense with the “sir” shall we?’ Contrary to old Hamish McLagan’s practice, Jefferson Powell used first names with his men. Having been a waterman himself, it was his belief that a familiar relationship between employer and employee promoted loyalty and honesty. ‘Call me Jefferson,’ he said. ‘And you’re Michael, am I right?’

‘Yes. I’m Michael.’ Mick decided that he liked being called Michael. At least he did by a man like Jefferson Powell.

‘Well, Michael, it appears you have a job.’ Jefferson offered his hand and they shook. ‘Welcome to Powell River Transport.’ The statement was delivered with a certain éclat intended to impress, which it did.

‘What happened to the McLagan Ferry-Boat Service?’ Mick asked.

‘Changes are afoot, my friend,’ the American said with a grin. ‘You are about to become part of a whole new enterprise.’

The clouds had rolled in and at that very moment, as if to lend extra drama to Jefferson’s announcement, it started to rain.

They grabbed the oars and rigging and sprinted for the cottage, beating the cloudburst by seconds.

‘It’ll blow over quickly in this wind,’ Jefferson said as they stood on the porch watching the sheets of rain sweep across the bay.

But Mick wasn’t interested in the weather. ‘You were telling me about Powell River Transport?’ he prompted. By God, but it hadn’t taken the man long to commit old McLagan to obscurity. Mick wondered how Doris felt about her father’s name being so summarily dropped from the very business he’d created.

‘Yes, so I was. Powell River Transport will expand over the coming years, Michael . . .’ With his two ketches still currently under construction, Jefferson considered it premature to announce that his principal enterprise would be Powell Channel Transport. ‘. . . I’m not at liberty to be specific as yet, but in the months to come I shall be looking for a manager to take over the ferry service.’

‘Really, is that so?’ Mick’s casual expression of interest concealed a growing excitement. Surely Jefferson Powell wasn’t hinting that the job could be his?

But Jefferson was hinting at no such thing. He was talking of his own future, not Mick’s.

‘I intend to employ a ticket-of-leave couple to live here and manage the business,’ he said, ‘a man with knowledge of the trade and an ability to handle the bookwork, while his wife helps Doris out with the daily chores.’ Jefferson laughed. ‘Although Doris hardly needs helping out: she likes to work, and she won’t even consider a live-in servant at the big house. She has a girl come in twice a week to look after the children while she goes shopping.’

Mick was not remotely concerned about Doris and her domestic arrangements. He was wondering how best he could convince Jefferson that a single man taking over the cottage and the ferry management would be vastly preferable to a couple. But as the American continued, he realised persuasion might not be that simple.

‘Van Diemen’s Land has been good to me, Michael,’ Jefferson said looking out over the rain-swept river, ‘and I feel it’s my duty to help others. I’d like to give a young ticket-of-leave couple a step-up in life.’

Mick found it wryly perverse that, had he been a convict, he would have stood more of a chance. If I’d only known earlier, he thought, I would have lied, but it’s too late now. He wondered briefly whether he might introduce Evie as his ticket-of-leave fiancée, but he dismissed the notion. Too obvious a ploy. And besides, Evie’s past was all too apparent: she was not fiancée material. He refused to be daunted, however. An opportunity would present itself given time. He would get around Jefferson Powell one way or another.

They discussed briefly the conditions of employment. The job Jefferson offered was that of ship-to-shore waterman, which as he pointed out was a compliment to Mick’s skills. The boats were manned by a team of two, and an apprentice would be employed to serve as his forward hand. The two-man teams worked on an honour system, recording where and how often they dropped passengers or goods in the log books supplied. At the close of each work day, Jefferson collected the takings and checked the log books, and the men were paid at the end of the week, with a bonus for the team that had scored the top takings.

Under Jefferson Powell’s management, dishonesty was no longer the problem it had been in old Hamish’s day, for the McLagan Ferry-Boat Service had developed a fine reputation. Men were proud to be a McLagan waterman, and a keen sense of competition had developed among the teams to see who could win the weekly bonus and the boast that went with it of being the best at their trade.

As most of the men were illiterate or semi-literate at best, they simply made their marks in the log books. It was a perfectly satisfactory arrangement, but Jefferson was nonetheless delighted to discover that Mick could read and write. He was not altogether surprised though, for there was something stylish about the young Irishman that set him apart from the average working-class man.

‘Oh, my father was a stickler for education,’ Mick said. ‘“A man is measured by the books he reads, Michael.” That’s what he was forever saying to me.’ His father had said no such thing. Indeed, it was doubtful whether Patrick Kelly had ever read a book in his life. Recalling the quote from a teacher, Mick now blessed his mother, who had doggedly insisted against her husband’s wishes that, as five of their six children were now working, the youngest was to attend school until his fifteenth birthday.

‘There was a time when I even considered a career as a teacher,’ Mick continued, another outright lie, ‘but then I got caught up with the nationalists, and . . . well, one thing led to another . . .’ He tailed off leaving just that hint, just that faint reminder of the youthful idealism with which Jefferson Powell was so bound to identify.

‘Of course.’ Jefferson tactfully did not pursue the subject. ‘Well goodness me, will you just look at that?’ he said, gesturing at the sky. ‘I said it’d blow over, and it certainly has.’

The clouds had rolled on by as quickly as they’d rolled on in and the sky was once again clear blue.

After locking up the cottage, they made their way back along the foreshore.

‘All I need to do now is line you up with a for’ard hand,’ the American said.

‘I’d be more than happy to do that myself, Jefferson,’ Mick offered. ‘It would leave you free to concentrate on your other interests. I have many contacts, and I’m sure upon enquiry I’ll be able to find an apprentice waterman who would meet with your approval. Perhaps someone seeking ticket-of-leave employment?’

‘Excellent, Michael, excellent. I shall leave the recruiting to you then.’

Things are going very nicely, Mick thought. It shouldn’t take him too long to convince Jefferson he was indispensable and the perfect choice to take over the ferry service management. For one so clever, the American seemed surprisingly receptive to suggestion.

Upon reaching the house, they entered via the back porch where Jefferson divested himself of his work boots and coat, and Mick rubbed his own boots on the doormat until inspection showed they were completely mud-free.

They’d arrived home nearly an hour later than arranged, but Doris had assumed they’d sheltered from the rain.

‘I’m brewing a fresh pot,’ she said and she disappeared to the kitchen, leaving them with the children, both of whom were under strict instructions that, as they were in the front sitting room and entertaining a guest, they were to be on their best behaviour.

Jefferson introduced four-year-old Martha.

‘Hello,’ the little girl said, looking boldly up at Mick.

‘Hello,’ he replied. How very unfortunate, he thought. The child had inherited her mother’s looks. The same broad face, with eyes like currants and a heavy brow that seemed to offer a perennially dour expression. Even the healthy, stocky little body threatened to become squat and dumpy like her mother’s. How sad, he thought. ‘That’s a pretty dress you’re wearing, Martha,’ he said and he flashed a dazzling smile.

She studied him with grave deliberation. ‘You’re very handsome,’ she said.

He gave a gracious bow in acknowledgement of the compliment. ‘Why thank you, ma’am,’ he replied, and the little girl smiled.

Who would have believed it possible? Mick thought. The child was not remotely plain when she smiled. She had dimples that lit up her face. The fact that her little currant eyes disappeared into slits only added to a merriment that was utterly contagious. He found it impossible not to grin back. In that single moment, with just one smile, Martha Powell had won Mick O’Callaghan’s heart.

Doris returned with the tea tray and the serving ritual began, the two children playing their obviously well-rehearsed parts. George, with great care and without spilling a drop, delivered the cups of tea his mother poured, first to their guest and then to his father, Martha following with the sugar bowl.

‘Thank you, Martha,’ Mick said, hoping the little girl would smile again, but she was so focused upon her duty she just nodded at the sugar bowl.

‘You may offer the cake now, Martha,’ Doris said when the tea had been served. She passed the plate with its meticulously arranged slices of fruitcake to her daughter.

Eyes riveted on the dish, hands fiercely gripping either side, Martha made her way over to Mick with resolute and solemn purpose, each step painfully measured.

‘Thank you, Martha,’ he said when at last she reached him. He took a piece of cake and put it on his side plate, flashing another smile as he did so in the hope that she would reciprocate. But she didn’t. Martha’s smiles were not an automatic social response and could not be so easily won. She looked up at him with her solemn face.

‘My mother made it,’ she said.