Tiger Men (6 page)

Isabel Stanford had given up trying to please her father at the age of fifteen, and at nineteen had married Percival Buxton, a young captain in the British army whom she’d met just six months previously at a gala fundraising function held by the Hobart Town Businessmen’s Philanthropic Society. The couple had moved to Launceston where Percival was stationed, and they planned shortly to return to England upon the completion of his two-year commission, all of which suited Isabel perfectly. Silas had been bewildered by the speed of events, but happy that his daughter had apparently found her ideal match.

‘No child in the colony, no matter from how impoverished a family, will be denied an education.’ He was now at his pontificating best.

Amy nodded encouragingly, although she wasn’t paying attention to his actual words. This is the only father Harriet and Isabel knew, she thought, a father whose compassion for his fellow man had added to their sense of deprivation. But it shouldn’t have, for he had always loved them, and still did in his own mysterious way. Silas Stanford’s tragedy in life was his inability to show his personal feelings. He did today though, didn’t he? Amy thought. Today Silas Stanford, albeit unwittingly, had revealed a glimpse of his innermost self. She hadn’t known he still ached with the pain of his wife’s death. None of them had known.

‘And you, my dear, will be a part of it all,’ Silas announced with pride. ‘When the ragged school system is established, we will be in need of teachers, and you shall be one of our first.’

‘I would consider that a great honour, Father, a great honour indeed.’ She picked up the teapot and started pouring herself a second cup. ‘Now finish your tea and let me make you a fresh one.’

‘Oh dear, I’ve been ranting, haven’t I?’

‘No more than usual. Now finish your tea please, I wish to propose a toast.’ She smiled as he obediently drained his cup.

‘So what is the toast?’ he asked, watching her pour.

‘To the forthcoming success of the Hobart Town Ragged School Association, of course,’ she replied.

‘But of course.’

She passed him his fresh cup and they made their toast. Then Amy proposed a second.

‘And even more importantly,’ she said, ‘let us drink to Tasmania.’

‘Oh my goodness me, yes.’ Silas considered the imminent renaming of the colony after its Dutch discoverer, Abel Tasman, to be of the most profound and symbolic significance. Van Diemen’s Land was to be newly baptised. The sins of the past were to be washed away. ‘To Tasmania,’ he said, raising his teacup, ‘a new name for a new land and a new people.’

‘To Tasmania,’ Amy said and they clinked cups. But changing the name won’t really change the people, she thought as she sipped her tea. Van Diemen’s Land was a wild place that attracted a certain kind. It always had, and quite possibly always would.

As if to prove her right, it was at that very moment that Mick O’Callaghan caught his first sight of Hobart Town.

A
fter rounding Cape Raoul with a blustering southerly at her stern, the
Maid of Canton
had fairly raced up Storm Bay. She was a clipper built for speed and few vessels could match her. A former opium runner, the
Maid
, as she was affectionately known, served a more respectable master these days, working the British trade routes for a wealthy merchant company.

Past Cape Direction and on up the Derwent the
Maid
had sped, her skipper eager to make dock before afternoon became dusk.

Then off the port bow, beyond the endless masts of ships at anchor, the hustle and bustle that was Hobart Town suddenly came into view.

To Mick O’Callaghan it was a magic sight.

‘There she is, Mick.’ Seamus gave him a nudge. ‘You’ve made it, you lucky young bastard.’

‘I certainly have,’ Mick responded with a grin, ‘and most obliged I am for your help, Seamus.’ I’ve made it all right, he thought. And as far as luck went, Seamus didn’t know the half of it. Arriving in Hobart Town was perhaps not remarkable, but arriving as a free man was little short of a miracle. He should have been one of those poor bastards dragging their chains off a transport ship.

‘Happy to have been of service,’ Seamus replied. And he was. Despite an eight-year age discrepancy, he’d been close to young Mick in the old Dublin days, even closer than Mick’s older brothers. Mick being the youngest of his family, and a late arrival at that, had had five siblings quite a deal older than he was and they’d tended to ignore him. The lad had always been a bit of a tearaway, and it hadn’t surprised Seamus to hear, via his own family, the rumour that Mick had got mixed up with the Young Irelanders movement and had left Belfast in something of a hurry, although no-one knew why. Seamus had thought little on the subject, however. He was not one to pass judgement, and there was nothing he could have done anyway, for by then he was a seasoned merchant sailor and the sea was his home. On those occasions when he wasn’t aboard ship or holed up in a foreign port, he stayed at a seamen’s hostel in Liverpool; apart from the odd family letter he’d lost all contact with Ireland. The coincidence of his having literally bumped into twenty-one-year-old Mick at the Liverpool docks where the lad was seeking work as a deckhand had seemed to Seamus the intervention of destiny. He’d been only too happy to lend a hand, and he hadn’t asked questions when Mick had said he wanted to sign up for a one-way voyage only. ‘I need to get as far away from Ireland as possible and stay there,’ Mick had said, and that was enough for Seamus. If young Mick Kelly now wanted to call himself Mick O’Callaghan that was nobody’s business but his own, and whatever intrigue the lad had got himself entangled in was of little interest anyway. Seamus kept well out of politics himself.

‘How about America?’ he’d suggested. ‘There’s a ship leaving tomorrow and I’m good friends with the first mate.’

‘Too many Irish in America,’ Mick had said. ‘I was thinking more of Australia.’

‘And you don’t reckon on finding Irish there?
’
Seamus had wryly queried.

‘Not the same sort of Irish.’

‘Ah yes, you do have a point, I agree.’

Young Mick’s choice of Australia had appeared to Seamus another portent of destiny’s hand in the scheme of things, for his own ship the
Maid
was due to sail for Van Diemen’s Land in only weeks.

‘You’re in luck,’ he’d said. ‘The
Maid of Canton
departs within the month. I’m first mate, and you’re welcome on board.’

‘Seamus, you’re a godsend, you truly are,’ Mick had said and he’d hugged his old mate with fervour.

But neither luck nor destiny had played any part in the fortuitous reunion of Mick Kelly, now O’Callaghan, and his childhood friend. Mick had known exactly where he would bump into Seamus, just as he had known that Seamus was first mate aboard the
Maid
, which was shortly to set sail for Van Diemen’s Land. The naiveté of his friend in accepting the coincidence of their meeting had not been in the least surprising, for even as a ten-year-old Mick had recognised how easily he could manipulate Seamus. But then Mick Kelly had discovered at ten that he could manipulate most people.

‘He has the gift of the blarney, that one,’ his father would boast. ‘He could charm the wings off a butterfly and the butterfly would walk away flightless and happy. The boy has the true gift, there’s no doubt about it.’ Patrick Kelly was a dreamer with a romantic love of his tribe, which his youngest son grew to find pointless and rather foolish. Being able to talk your way into people’s affections was one thing, but knowing how to use your power once you got there – that was something else altogether.

As the crew went about their work in preparation for docking, Mick wondered how Seamus might react if he knew the facts. Good, honest Seamus had believed he’d been rescuing an innocent lad from political thugs. And indeed he had, Mick thought. Sweet Jesus, those crazy bastards had been hounding him for years. They’d followed him from Belfast to London; it would have been only a matter of time before they’d traced him to Liverpool. But Seamus hadn’t known the catastrophic consequences of this innocent lad’s involvement with the Young Irelanders. No-one knew, and no-one was ever likely to find out, for the movement had long since disbanded. The problem now lay in distancing himself from its several fierce supporters who remained bent on revenge.

There were other facts of which Seamus had been ignorant, and it was to Mick’s advantage to ensure he continued so. Seamus had had no idea he’d been aiding a criminal. The knowledge of that would surely have worried him more than anything, Mick thought, for Seamus although a simple rough seaman was fiercely law-abiding.

Mick O’Callaghan thanked God for both Seamus and his own good fortune. Given the thieving he’d done in London he’d been lucky not to land in gaol – there’d been several close encounters with the law. But he’d not been deterred. Fuelled by the excitement of danger he’d kept on taking chances. Why he’d even pulled off a couple of jobs in Liverpool during the last several weeks before they’d set sail. He wondered what Seamus would say to that. Poor Seamus would no doubt be appalled. Not that it mattered. They wouldn’t be seeing each other again. Seamus had served his purpose.

The skipper brought the
Maid
in under virtually no sail, with just the skilful use of wind and tide; as the clipper pulled alongside the dock, the crew worked with smooth precision, the bosun’s commands barely necessary.

Mick and a crew mate secured the main bow line, and the Irishman rejoiced in his escape. He’d been a doomed man, there was nothing surer. If the Young Irelanders hadn’t got him, then the British constabulary would have. He revelled in a sudden sense of liberty. The sights and the sounds and the very smell of Hobart Town all spelt freedom to him. Once again he gave thanks and, if he’d not been busy with the bow line, he might even have crossed himself, a superstitious gesture only for he’d long ago relinquished the faith. There’d be no more lawlessness, he decided. He’d arrived here a free man when, but for the grace of God, he should have been in chains. I’ve done with thieving, he told himself, and he made a solemn vow. To what or to whom was vague. Mick swore his allusions to God were merely ‘habit’, but for a professed non-believer he seemed to refer to Him rather a lot.

Several hours later, as he wandered the dockside’s dark streets, canvas kit bag slung over one shoulder, the lights of each and every alehouse and tavern seemed to signal a personal welcome. Mick O’Callaghan was exploring his new surrounds and his new freedom and he was savouring every minute.

Upon leaving the ship, he’d felt duty-bound to have a quick drink with Seamus and they’d shared an ale at the Sailor’s Return on Old Wharf. The Sailor’s Return was the crew’s favoured pub when the
Maid
was in port, and Seamus had obviously presumed he and Mick would progress from there to a night on the town. Mick had quickly put paid to the idea.

‘Why do you think I scrubbed myself up?’ he’d said, stroking his now beardless chin. ‘It’s a woman I’m after, and the sooner the better.’

Seamus had burst out laughing. He understood the impatience of youth, but he found Mick’s vanity highly amusing. With the exception of a flamboyant moustache, the lad’s face was as smooth as a billiard ball, and the glossy black curls of his hair gleamed from brushing. His moleskin breeches were neatly tucked into knee-high boots that had seen a good polish; he wore an open-neck shirt that looked brand new; and a bright red kerchief, also apparently new, was tied at his throat.

‘You going courting, are you, Mick?’ Seamus had queried, and his own remark had brought about another guffaw. No doubt he too would end up with a woman after a night on the drink, but he was hardly going to dress for the occasion. Whores took note of a man’s purse, not his appearance. Looking Mick up and down, he’d winked and given him a hearty nudge in the ribs. ‘You’ve dressed up special, eh? I’m sure your efforts will be deeply appreciated,’ and he’d laughed again.

Mick hadn’t allowed Seamus’s humour to grate, although he’d considered it further evidence that the time for their parting had come. Instead, he’d flashed one of his roguish grins, the likes of which had caused many a female heart to flutter.

‘All women like to be courted, Seamus,’ he’d said. Then he’d drained his glass, stood and offered his hand. ‘Farewell, my friend, I shall be forever in your debt.’

‘Hardly farewell,’ Seamus had countered good-naturedly, amused by what he saw as Mick’s youthful flair for the melodramatic. ‘The
Maid
’s in port for a week. We’ll surely be seeing each other.’

‘Yes indeed, we surely will.’

We won’t, Mick had thought as he’d left the pub. He would avoid the Sailor’s Return and the crew of the
Maid,
and most particularly Seamus. When starting a new life, one needed to adopt new friends.

Now, having walked away from the docks and into the narrow streets of Wapping, he heard something that made his heart leap. From a nearby pub came the sound of a fiddle belting out a wild Irish reel. It was a sound that, for some time, had sent him in the opposite direction. In London and Liverpool, he’d kept well clear of the haunts of the Irish. But this was Van Diemen’s Land, he told himself. He had no need to fear his countrymen here. Turning the corner he strode boldly through the front doors of the Hunter’s Rest.

Mick felt at home the moment he entered the pub. The golden glow of its lamp-light was warm and inviting, and he was greeted by the sound of Irish voices and the music of his homeland.

As he looked, a bold girl picked up her skirts and started dancing to the fiddle. Men made space for her in the centre of the room, pulling aside wooden benches, clapping along as the fiddler quickened the pace, cheering as her bosom bounced and her bare legs flashed. The other women present, a good half dozen or so, were even more vocal than the men. ‘Show ’em your stuff, Maevy,’ one bawdy wench yelled, ‘give ’em a good look,’ and as the dancer’s skirts reached crotch level a huge cheer went up.

Mick was intoxicated by the atmosphere. In the closeness of the pub, the smell of human sweat mingled with the odour of the whale oil that fuelled the lamps and he found the mixture heady and erotic.