The Potato Factory

Chapter Thirty-one

In the general course of events, the meeting of an acquaintance sixteen thousand miles from where you had last known them would seem to be a miracle. But in the penal colonies of New South Wales or Van Die-men's Land, it was a very common experience. The under class of London, Manchester, Birmingham, Glasgow and Belfast were transported in their thousands. Men and women who had lived in the same dark, stinking courts and alleys, who had, as children, starved and played in the same cheerless streets, might run into one another in a tavern crowd in Hobart Town. An old accomplice might tap one on the shoulder and claim a drink and a hand-out, or simply an hour's gossip of people and places known in a past now much romanticised by time and absence.

Ikey came to expect a familiar yell across a crowded room from someone who recognised him from London or the provinces; though in truth, he was previously so well known by reputation that there were some who merely imagined a past association with him. It did not come as a total shock, therefore, when Ikey one night entered the Hobart Whale Fishery, a tavern frequented by whalers, and heard a high sweet voice raised above the noise of the crowd as it sung a pretty ditty. He had last heard that tune at the Pig 'n Spit, and knew at once that the voice belonged to Marybelle Firkin.

Fine Ladies and Gents come hear my sad tale The sun is long down and the moon has grown pale So drink up your rum and toss down your ale Come rest your tired heads on my pussy… come rest your tired heads on my pussy… cat's tail!

Jack tars of every nation joined in the chorus so that the tavern shook with their boisterous singing.

Come rest your tired heads on my pussy…

Come rest your tired heads on my pussy… cat's tail!

Ikey listened as Marybelle Firkin now added a new verse to the song.

The notorious tavern on the Old Wharf was crowded with whalemen returned from Antarctic waters with a successful season's catch behind them, and their canvas pockets bulging with silver American dollars, French francs and the King's pound.

The tars spent wildly at their first port of call in months, and the shopkeepers rubbed their hands in glee. But it was at the Hobart Whale Fishery where most of the money was spent. This was the tavern most favoured by the thirsty and randy jack tars, and it was here also that some of the more expensive of the town's whores gathered.

It was almost sunrise before Ikey was able to greet Marybelle Firkin, who loomed large, bigger than Ikey had ever imagined, holding a tankard of beer. Around her on the floor washed with stale beer and rum lay at least a dozen jack tars, quite oblivious to the coming day.

Marybelle Firkin, who now called herself Sperm Whale Sally, put down her tankard of Bitter Rosie and swept Ikey into her enormous arms, lifting him from the ground in the grandest of hugs, until he begged her for mercy.

'Oh Ikey, it is you!' she screamed with delight. Then she placed Ikey down and held him at arm's length. 'You 'aven't changed at all, lovey, 'andsome as ever!' She pointed to Ikey's bald head. 'No 'at! Where's your lovely 'at?'

Ikey touched the shiny top of his head as though he had only just noticed the absence of his broad-brimmed hat. 'It ain't kosher to wear a Jew's 'at here, my dear, and I have yet to find another I prefers.'

Ikey and Marybelle resumed their friendship, though in truth Sperm Whale Sally, as Marybelle now insisted she be called, had fallen on hard times. Though Ikey was largely, though indirectly, responsible for this, she bore him no malice. Her involvement on the morning of his notorious escape had brought her to the attention of the police, and the blind eye previously turned to the existence of the ratting den upstairs was now withdrawn. As a consequence the profits of the Pig 'n Spit had greatly decreased. With the closing down of the ratting ring, Thomas Tooth and George Betteridge had taken it into their minds to find another buyer for their Bank of England bill paper, no longer trusting Marybelle Firkin as their intermediary. When the two men were arrested they had named her to place bond for them, threatening to tell of her involvement if she did not acquiesce. At the plea of Habeas Corpus, the judge had set the bond very high and when this had been paid Marybelle Firkin found herself under suspicion and at the same time robbed of all of her available resources.

It was not long before she received a visit from a police sergeant whom she had regularly paid to overlook the existence of the ratting ring. Now, after first extorting a tidy bribe from her, he warned that she was about to be investigated by the City police over the matter of the bank paper.

Marybelle had left that same night under the assumed name of Sally Jones, taking the first available boat from Gravesend, which happened to be sailing on the morning tide for Van Diemen's Land. She had arrived in Hobart Town almost penniless, and had found that the only way she could maintain her voracious appetite was to join the ranks of the world's oldest profession. She had soon enough been christened Sperm Whale Sally by the jack tars who came off the whaling ships. She begged Ikey never to reveal her proper name, lest news of her presence in Hobart Town reach England.

'That be my story, Ikey,' Sperm Whale Sally concluded. 'Sad, but no sadder than most and not as sad as many a poor wretch.' She chuckled and placed her boot on the stomach of an unconscious tar under the table at her feet. 'It were pretty bad at first, ain't too much call for an 'arf crown Judy. I grow'd most skinny them first months. Not every whale man likes a four 'undred pound cuddle!' Sperm Whale Sally hooted with laughter. 'It's the 'Mericans what most favoured me, but they ain't always in port. But then, three year ago. I come up with this Blue Sally lark, and now I eats well with a bit to spare for when the whalin' ships be out to sea.' She nudged the man at her feet with the toe of her boot. 'I loves these whalemen, Ikey. They come in from the cruel, cold sea proper starvin' for a bit o' love and cuddlin'.' She started to positively wobble with laughter, 'and I 'as a lot of lovin' to give 'em if they got the stamina to win it!' She lifted her tankard of Bitter Rosie and swallowed half of it in one great gulp. 'Ikey Solomon, we goes back a long ways, it be most lovely to see you again!'

The Blue Sally Challenge was a grand contest known to the crew of every whaling ship that sailed the Pacific Ocean. The Blue Sally was treasured among whalemen above anything else they took to sea, and some of the more superstitious considered it a matter of life or death that the vessel they sailed in carried it flying from the topmast, even though it was nothing more than a modest piece of bunting, a white flag with the outline in blue of a sperm whale stitched upon it. It was common enough in whaling ports around the world for a ship's master or agent recruiting whalemen for the season to be asked two questions: the crewman's share of the catch and, 'Capt'n, do she sail under a Blue Sally?' So important had the flying of the Blue Sally become that a whaling ship sailing into a Pacific port without the blue and white bunting flying from her masthead was the subject of more than a little raucous innuendo as to the masculine nature of the men aboard her.

How this peculiar and unique contest first came about is a story best told by Sperm Whale Sally herself. She recounted it to Ikey early one morning when she was sufficiently sober, having eliminated that night's Blue Sally challenger with such a degree of ease that she was still happily tucking into a leg of pork alone at the challenge table, her opponent stretched out unconscious under it, both arms folded across his chest.

'As you knows, lovey, eatin' is me passion, and drinkin' is me Gawd given gift! So I decides to combine both in a grand competition. If them fuckers won't pay 'arf a crown for me body, they'll do so for me north and south, for me great cake 'ole.' Sperm Whale Sally laughed.

'I needs a story, whalemen being most superstitious and given to legends and the like. So I invents me own. It be a real beauty, lots of adventure and a grand opportunity for me voice, me bein' an actress an' all. I even invents a song what goes with it. That done the trick, the song, the sea shanty what o' course you've heard a hundred times or more.'

Sperm Whale Sally began to sing in the clear, sweet voice the whalemen loved.

Come gather around me, you jack tars and doxies I'll sing you the glorious whaleman's tale Let me tell you the story, of death and the glory of Rackham… who rode on the tail of a Whale So take up your doxy and drink down your ale And dance a fine jig to a fine fishy tale We'll fly the Blue Sally wherever we sail and drink to the health o' the great sperm whale!

It started at dawn on a bright Sabbath morning When Lord Nelson's body came 'ome pickled in rum Every jack tar mourned the great British sailor And drank to their hero as church bells were rung I be born to the sound o' the bells of St Paul's Where they buried the sealord all solemn and proper That very same day harpooner John Rackham Rode the tail of a whale around Davey Jones' locker The watch up the mainmast gave out a great shout, 'A six pod to starboard all swimming in strong!'

So they lowered a whale boat, harpoon gun and line Three cheers for the crew then the whale hunt was on John Rackham, he stood to his harpoon and line 'Row the boat close, lads, 'til we see its great chest Steady she goes now, keep the bow straight Or this great fearless fish will bring all to their rest!'

The boat's bow, on a crest, held still for a moment Sufficient for Rackham to make good his aim Then the harpoon flew screaming to carry the line And buried its head in a great crimson stain 'Steady now, lads, let the fish make his dive Then he'll turn for the top and the fight'll begin Ship your oars, boys, take the ride as he runs For the sperm has a courage that comes from within'

Ten fathoms down the fish turned from its dive As the harpoon worked in, on the way to his heart Then he spied the boat's belly directly above him And he knew they'd pay for this terrible dart!

Fifty tons rose as the fish drove like thunder Like a cork in a whirlpool the boat spun around The jaws of the whale smashed through its planking And the sharks made a meal o' the pieces they found!

John Rackham was saved as the fish drove him upwards he found himself up on the nose of the whale With a snort he was tossed sky high and then backwards and landed most neatly on the great creature's tail 'Let me live! Master Whale, I've a child to be born!

Spare my life and I promise to name it for you!'

'That's a fanciful tale,' cried the furious whale 'But how can I know what you say will be true?'

John Rackham he pondered then started to smile 'Not only its name, but its soul to you too!

And we'll make a white flag with your picture upon it A great sperm whale emblazoned in blue!'

The great fish turned and swam straight to the ship With a flick of his tail threw him safe in a sail Then the deadly dart finally pierced his great heart Now we fly the Blue Sally to honour the whale!

So take up your doxy and drink down your ale And dance a fine jig to a fine fishy tale We'll fly the Blue Sally wherever we sail and drink to the health o' the great sperm whale!

Sperm Whale Sally started to laugh. 'It were the song and the story. Some likes the song and others the story. Whalemen loves to dance a jig and sing a shanty and they loves a good story too, and so I made 'em two o' the very best I could!'

Sperm Whale Sally always told the story with the utmost sincerity so that the whalemen, anxious for a new sea legend, wanted to believe it and many of them did. Sperm Whale Sally never told the story without singing the song about her dearest papa, whaleman John Rackham, and how he had been nearly killed and then saved by a great sperm whale while hunting in Antarctic waters on the same day that she had been born and Lord Nelson was brought back to England from Cape Trafalgar in Spain, his body pickled in rum to preserve it.

Though Sperm Whale Sally had been born a normal size baby, she immediately started to grow at an alarming rate, and she needed the breasts of four wet nurses to keep her satisfied. Her concerned mother took her to see a Romany woman who told her that she saw death and life in the form of a great fish. That the fish was her child's birth sign and it had stolen her spirit and exchanged it for its own, so she had a whale as a child, which would continue to grow, and nothing could stop her.

The gypsy prophesied that one day 'the child of the Great Fish' would return to the hunting grounds where the nearest of all fish were to be found. That her fish spirit, looking to find its natural home so that her own human spirit might return to her, would guide the hunters in their quest for the whale. But this only if there was one among them who could match the strength and endurance of the great female fish, and consummate this by entering her. This man would earn for his crew a talisman in the form of the fish flag. Those who flew it would be protected at sea and have bountiful luck in hunting the great sperm whale.

'Ah, Ikey, lovey! It were a feeble enough legend and a not very good song, both most contrived to begin with, but you know 'ow these things grow with a little bit added 'ere and a bit more there. The first season I were dead lucky, the ships o' Black Boss Cape Town and Tomahawk were the only two that 'ad earned a Blue Sally, though thank Gawd there were a great many others who tried and met with the greatest o' good luck. They took the biggest catches o' the season and not a jack tar among them were lost overboard or killed in a whale boat.'

Sperm Whale Sally laughed uproariously. 'That were all it took! When the Sturmvogel and the Merryweather come into port flyin' the Blue Sally, the legend were truly born. Suddenly I were the reincarnation o' the great fishy, the talisman, the good luck a whaleman takes to sea.' Sperm Whale Sally's great carcass wobbled again as she laughed. 'Blimey, it were on for one an' all!' She paused and wiped the sweat from her brow and sighed. 'Thank Gawd it ain't stopped since and I eats like a queen, and when the whalin' ships are in I earns sufficient to live well after they be gorn orf again to 'unt.'

The rules of the contest had formed over the years Sperm Whale Sally had been playing it, though, for all this, it remained much the same. The crew of a whaling ship would issue their challenge and nominate their man as challenger. They would pay their dues, half a crown per man on board the vessel, and the master would sign a statement that his crew, or the vessel itself, would meet the costs of the food and the drink consumed by Sperm Whale Sally and her challenger.

It was not unusual for a ship's master to be present at such a contest and it was often claimed that the Blue Sally meant so much to the crew of a whaling ship that some captains would advertise in their ports of origin for a crew member of sufficient size and drinking reputation to join, with an extra bonus promised if he should win a coveted Blue Sally for his vessel.

With the challenge formally made and payment guaranteed, the crew would choose pork or mutton, and the nature of the challenger's drink, this being a choice of rum, brandy, whisky or gin. Sperm Whale Sally's nomination was always ale. The rules required that her drink be matched with a strong spirit and that each contestant drink one kind of drink followed by the other. Thus a pint of ale, followed by a tot of rum, was matched by both contestants drink for drink.

In addition, a roasted sheep or pig was placed on the table together with a barrel of ale and one of the challenger's nominated spirit. The publican, or the ship's master if he'd agreed to be present, would act as the meat carver, drink dispenser and master of the ceremony. His task was to pour the drinks openly so all might see they were not spiked to the disadvantage of the challenger. He would also carve equal amounts from the carcass and add the same number of roasted potatoes from a dish of one hundred equally sized.

Precisely two hours was allowed for the contest and if, after this time, the challenger was not 'under the table', that is to say unconscious, then he was led by Sperm Whale Sally to the beach some fifty yards from the Whale Fishery. This final ceremony was known as 'the Beaching of the Whale' where the victor was invited to mount and consummate his 'taking of the flag'.

Only in this way could a Blue Sally be won for a whaling ship and when the fleet was in, no night passed without a challenger. But when the fleet put back to sea there were very few 'who newly flew the Sally Blue', and many who swore they would return to try again.

There were also a few greatly envied ships who flew a 'Two Sally Blue', a flag which sported upon it two sperm whales, indicating successful challenges on two separate occasions.

And then there were the two vessels, the Sturmvogel and the Merryweather, who flew the 'True Blue', a Blue Sally which carried stitched against its white background three great sperm whales. Each one had been won by the ship by the two giant men, the negro, Black Boss Cape Town, who claimed to come from a tribe deep in the African wilderness somewhere north of the Cape of Good Hope, and Tomahawk, the Red Indian, a Cheyenne from the American wilderness. Both men stood six feet and seven inches tall and could not walk frontways through the door of the Whale Fishery without touching the posts on either side.

In the manner of sailors there were some men, big men too, who when drunk enough would challenge the 'nigger' or the 'injun savage', but none were known who had remained on their feet beyond a blow delivered from the giant fist of either man. As winners of the True Blue they were occasioned the favours of Sperm Whale Sally without payment whenever they were in port. Although this had never occurred simultaneously, there was much speculation among whalemen as to what would be the consequence if this should happen, as everyone agreed, sooner or later, the two men must meet in combat.

The whaling season that year was a good one and the ships came into port, their holds fully loaded with whale oil and the promise of a big payout for the crews. The whole of Hobart Town prepared for the windfall of several hundred whalers let loose on the town with cash jingling in the pockets of their canvas ducks.

When the Sturmvogel came in on the morning tide and the Merryweather on the evening, both flying the True Blue, it was Pegleg Midnight who was the first to alert Sperm Whale Sally as she struggled to alight from a hired landau at ten o'clock of the night when her day began. Among much giggling and moaning she locked her great arms about the shoulders of the diminutive driver who, as she finally alighted, was momentarily obscured, smothered in a mountain of baby blue satin and pink flesh.

'Better stay home tonight, Sperm Whale Sally,' Pegleg shouted across to her.

'What, and starve to death!' Sperm Whale Sally called back. 'What be the matter, lovey?'

'Black Boss Cape Town and Tomahawk both be in town!' Pegleg said.

Sperm Whale Sally looked back at the landau. It took four men to load her but only one to set her down, so she shrugged. The two whaling vessels might be in for a fortnight or more, besides she hadn't been eating much all day, and had already been booked for a Blue Sally contest. And so she laughed and shrugged her shoulders. 'Ah well, may the best man win!' she said cheerily, then made her way slowly towards the Whale Fishery where a light supper of a roast leg of mutton and a dish of potatoes awaited her ravenous attention.

Pegleg Midnight, known by all to be a terrible gossip, was, surprisingly, not yet motherless drunk. Before the evening was an hour older he had caused word to be spread around all the dockside pubs, brothels, cock fights, sly grog shops and gaming dens, that Black Boss Cape Town and Tomahawk would square off at midnight, their prize the singular favours of the giant whore Sperm Whale Sally.

Chapter Thirty-two livening has a short stay in Hobart Town, a soft, still light that squeezes in between day and night as the great mountain sucks the last splash of sun into its rounded belly. Far below the wide river lies flat, like a sheet of tin, and the hills on its distant shore grow smoky and vague to the eye. Then night comes quickly, as though there should be a clap of thunder to accompany such wizardry.

It is as if the town sits in the hollow of a great hand which snaps its malicious fingers shut and crushes it into darkness. Voices grow still, dogs cease to bark and the wash of the incoming tide slaps hard and cold to the ear.

And then a silver glow rises across the river and comes to dance upon the fist of blackness and, as though cajoled by the light, the hand slowly opens to the candle of a rising moon. New stars pin themselves to the cold, high firmament and the night in Hobart Town is begun.

Such was the night when Tomahawk, the giant Red Indian, met Black Boss Cape Town in the Whale Fishery for the exclusive rights to the fair hand of Sperm Whale Sally.

Both men were legends in South Pacific and Antarctic waters, harpooners with a hundred and more kills to their name, and each had earned the True Blue which flew with pride from the masts of their ships.

Luck is a curious companion, it comes to those who believe they hold it, and is an elusive servant to those who doubt they possess it. The conviction that luck is your willing partner brings with it a sharper eye, a keener spirit, a willingness to take more chances, work harder, start earlier and work later. Luck bears the nostrils of success, for it can smell good fortune at a distance and leads those who possess it as surely to its source as a Sabbath roast does to the nose of a pious verger.

The men who sailed on the Merryweather and the Sturmvogel thought themselves blessed with good fortune and so their catches seemed blessed and a cut above the rest of the whaling fleet.

Moreover, the Americans on the Merryweather regarded their crew to be of an even higher status than the Danish ship, for it was rumoured that Sperm Whale Sally carried a tattoo on her enormous right breast which bore the name Tomahawk. It had always been obvious to them that she favoured their man, and therefore their ship, above any other. Now, when they heard that this was not so, that the giant whore had issued a challenge to see who would win her favour, they had grown most indignant and then angry. They were convinced that their harpooner must teach Black Boss a lesson, and establish for all time their supremacy in the South Pacific.

On the Sturmvogel a similar dilemma existed. They knew about the tattoo, and reckoned how the Americans, known in Hobart Town as 'Jonathans', would think their man most especially favoured by Sperm Whale Sally.

They were first to arrive at the Whale Fishery, preceded by Pegleg Midnight who hobbled in on his dummy leg playing his fiddle at a furious pace so that almost all turned their heads. Pegleg continued to play until he reached the huge chair at the end of the challenge table and which was known as 'the Whale's Tail'. It was made of solid Tasmanian oak with the scene of John Rackham riding on the tail of a sperm whale, carved into its backrest. It was where Sperm Whale Sally always sat. Another identical chair, adorned with a carving of the Blue Sally, stood at the other end of the table and was known as 'the Flagging Chair', which was where the challenger sat. Pegleg Midnight brought his fiddle to a crescendo before abruptly stopping in the middle of the highest note.

'They be comin', Black Boss Cape Town and the crew and master o' the Sturmvogel, and by all appearances they be most angry!' he shouted.

He had hardly completed this announcement when Black Boss Cape Town's giant body filled the doorway of the Whale Fishery. He stooped and pushed himself through the door, his shoulders touching either side of the door frame. Black Boss Cape Town walked over to where Sperm Whale Sally sat and upon his dark face was a most mischievous and charming grin. Then he stooped, and in a single movement picked her up and swung her around to face the astonished onlookers. Sperm Whale Sally squealed, but when she realised she was held securely her cries changed to delight. 'Goet, goet, much goet, Sperm Whale Sally!' the giant black man announced, and then swung her around again and deposited her neatly back into the chair.

Sperm Whale Sally, somewhat flustered and red in the face, declared 'I guarantee 'e be a most pleasin'

'arpooner!' and wobbled with laughter. The tension was broken, and those who had come to witness the great bout were swept up in her merriment. Finally she jiggled to a halt and smiled sweetly at Black Boss Cape Town. 'Welcome, lovey, it be grand to see you safe returned! I trusts the True Blue flew true for you and that all your barrels be full o' the good oil?' She turned to the master of the Sturmvogel. 'Evenin', capt'n', then shouted towards the bar. 'Betsy, lovey, bring a double pint tankard o' Bitter Rosie for Mr Black Boss Cape Town, please, and a noggin o' best rum for the good capt'n!'

'We have come to fight!' Captain Jorgensen said suddenly in a raised voice. 'But also we must have a condition, if you please!'

Sperm Whale Sally looked up, shocked. 'Fight? What fight may that be then, capt'n?'

Jorgen Jorgensen drew back, momentarily nonplussed, having assumed everything to be settled, and that the idea of the fight had come from Sperm Whale Sally herself.

'You said, may the best man win!' Pegleg Midnight chipped in. 'Black Boss Cape Town 'ere come to fight the injun! They 'as to fight to see what ship lays the top claim to you, to the luck o' the great sperm whale!'

'Fight? For me?' Sperm Whale Sally drew herself against the back of the huge chair and brought both her hands to her breasts. 'There'll be no fights for me, lads!' She shook her head. 'Not on your bloomin' nelly!'

'We must fight!' Jorgensen repeated, banging his fist on the table.

Sperm Whale Sally looked up in alarm at the anger in his voice. 'Whatever for, capt'n? You both flies the True Blue most proud!'

Captain Jorgensen was not used to explaining himself, and warily looked about the crowded room which had grown completely silent. He seemed conscious that what he was about to say might sound rather foolish. 'We want to have…' he paused and lightly tapped his heart with his forefinger. 'We fight for… your titty!'

'Huh?' Sperm Whale Sally's mouth fell open. A ripple of surprise came from the crowd and then silence as the onlookers waited for the response. She glanced down at her breasts, touching each with the tips of her fat fingers before looking up at Jorgensen. 'One or both?' she asked.

There was a howl of laughter from the crowd, but the master of the Sturmvogel was not amused.

'Starboard only!'

Sperm Whale Sally looked down at her right breast, then at the left one and then back up at the captain. 'So, what be wrong with me other titty?' she enquired mischievously, enjoying the captain's embarrassment and finding it difficult to restrain her laughter.

'Portside belong to Jonathan! Sturmvogel wants boarding rights on the starboard titty!' He turned and motioned to a jack tar who stood near to come forward. 'We'll fight the Jonathan injun and when Black Boss Cape Town beats him, Svensen here make a tattoo o' the Sturmvogel on your starboard titty.' He held out his hand to the jack tar and the man he'd called Svensen placed a small piece of paper in it. Captain Jorgen Jorgensen took three steps towards Sperm Whale Sally and handed her the paper. 'A picture o' the ship, most excellently drawn, Svensen will make a good artwork of it.'

Sperm Whale Sally looked at the picture of the Danish whaling ship and thought the pretty drawing would look most handsome on her breast. But she did not indicate this to the captain. Instead she slowly undid her bodice and peeled back the material covering the vast expanse of her left breast, stopping just short of the rosy sphere around her nipple. Resting high upon it was a crude tattoo of the head of an Indian chief and the single word, 'Tomahawk'.

Those in the crowd standing close enough to see the tattoo gasped. The rumour that she favoured the huge Indian was confirmed. Sperm Whale Sally seemed somewhat surprised herself at the presence of the tattoo, as if she had quite forgotten it existed.

And indeed she confirmed this, 'Blimey! I quite forgot it be there!' She covered the tattoo with her bodice and slowly did up the buttons. 'That be there since I were a young 'un, long before I come to Van Diemen's Land!' she said to Captain Jorgensen. 'That be there,' she began and then stopped suddenly, and looked up at Jorgen Jorgensen and added, 'I don't rightly remember…' her voice trailing off.

In fact she remembered it well. She'd been just fifteen years old, a young actress in a Drury Lane play named 'Trooper of the King', a story about the war against the American colonists. Cast as an Indian maiden, with no more than a walk-on part, she had become completely smitten with an actor playing the part of an Indian guide named Tomahawk. He had wined and dined her in the West End the night after the final performance. They caroused until the early hours and she had been too drunk to remember how or where she had been with him. All she recalled was waking up on a straw mattress in a cheap lodging house shortly before midday the following day to discover her erstwhile lover had departed and left his mark on her young breast in the form of a dark blue and very new tattoo.

'It 'as been there near all me life, capt'n! It ain't got nothin' to do with Mr Tomahawk the whaleman!' Sperm Whale Sally protested.

Jorgen Jorgensen shook his head, plainly not believing her. 'You been smoked, Sperm Whale Sally, we know it be there for the Merryweather and the injun savage.' He pointed at Sally's left breast. 'Portside be the Merryweather titty, now the starboard for Black Boss Cape Town and the Sturmvogel!'

'Three cheers for Black Boss Cape Town!' Pegleg shouted and the tavern resounded with three cheers for the giant black man who now stood with his arms folded, the front of his canvas shirt spread open to expose his immense barrel chest shiny with sweat.

'Oi! Remember me?' Sperm Whale Sally suddenly shouted. 'Ain't nobody gunna tattoo nothin' on me tits, you hear!'

There was a hushed silence and then someone shouted, 'Here they comes! The Jonathans are coming!'

All eyes turned to the doorway of the public house, though most could only see the crown of a top hat, because Captain Alexis 'Blackmouth' Perriman, who led the Americans, stood no more than five feet and three inches. Unlike Jorgen Jorgensen, who wore the clothes of a sailor coming ashore, a rough woollen suit of little style and most shabbily turned out, the captain of the Merryweather was dressed in a well-pressed top coat, clean linen, breeches, hose and well-shone buckled shoes. He was also clean shaven, but for a small tuft of dark beard stiffened with whale grease which grew at the point of his chin and was joined by a thin moustache which circled from either side of his top lip to meet the tuft. Within this hirsute oval stretched a small, thinly drawn mouth, downturned, so that it gave the impression of a vinegary disposition. He carried an ebony cane two-thirds as tall as himself with a whale bone carving of a sperm whale at its head, its eyes sparkling with what was claimed to be two blood red rubies.

Despite his appearance, he was a skipper who drove his men hard, was not himself backward in derring-do, and had a record as a whaling captain which was second to none. Following him were the crew of the Merryweather, mostly Jonathans, though there were several of the Irish among them. The last to enter the tavern was Tomahawk, the giant Red Indian. His hair was parted at the centre and had been braided in a single plait which fell five inches beyond his shoulders. He was as tall and as big around the shoulders as Black Boss Cape Town but did not possess a similar girth. Instead he tapered down to a slim waist, so that he gave the appearance of being the younger, stronger man.

Black Boss Cape Town carried three black stripes of a tribal cicatrisation down either cheek, and fitted into the stretched lobes of his ears were round discs the size of a silver dollar made of whale bone. In the centre of each was an inset of the outline of the sperm whale with its tail held high, carved of black horn.

Tomahawk wore no ornamentation save for his facial skin, which was completely tattooed with swirls and dots. Of the two savages he had the more fearsome appearance. Moreover, he did not smile as he walked over to the table to stand beside the master of the Merryweather. Tomahawk, dressed as a jack tar, folded his arms about his chest and looked directly ahead, as though he were there for the purposes of his own sweet repose, quite alone with his eyes inwardly cast.

Captain Perriman bowed his head slightly to Sperm Whale Sally and, turning, did the same to Captain Jorgen Jorgensen. 'Greetings captain,' he drawled.

Sperm Whale Sally smiled. 'Pleased to meetcha, capt'n!'

Jorgen Jorgensen went to extend his hand towards the American, but thought better of it and withdrew, then he nodded his head and grunted. 'Capt'n.'

Captain Perriman smiled thinly. 'Well, it be a fight then?' It was not so much a question as a statement. 'There should be rules,' he announced.

'Rules?' Jorgen Jorgensen looked puzzled. 'Whalemen do not fight to rules!'

'Aye, well, both are valuable men, captain. I feel sure you would not want your man killed nor even maimed, he be a harpooner be he not?'

Jorgensen pondered for a moment, and Sperm Whale Sally pushed herself up from her chair and pointed at the two captains. 'You listen to me, you pair o' right bastards!'

They both looked at her in surprise, as though they had quite forgotten she existed. 'What be it, woman?' Captain Perriman asked in an offhand and irritated voice.

'I already told you there ain't gunna be no fight and no one's gunna put a pitcher o' his ship on me tits!'

'But it is quite decided, Mistress Sally!' Jorgen Jorgensen replied, bemused by her sudden recalcitrance.

'Oh I see,' Captain Perriman said, smiling knowingly. He winked at the Danish captain and took his purse from his jacket and from it took a ten dollar American bill. Then he walked over to Sperm Whale Sally and threw it on the table in front of her.

Sperm Whale Sally looked at the bill. She might possibly have agreed to the tattoo for such a price but she wasn't going to be patronised by the supercilious Jonathan. Her voice was angry and aggressive. 'Now 'ang on a mo, capt'n! It ain't just the flamin' tattoo! It's me boys!' She pointed to Black Boss Cape Town and then to Tomahawk. 'They both o' them true blues, they both done what's needed, there ain't nothin' more they needs to do.' In a sudden impatient gesture she pushed the ten dollar bill away. 'You can stick yer Yankee money up yer tiny Jonathan arse!'

'My God, I do not believe my ears, a whore who turns down money?' Captain Perriman said, one eyebrow slightly arched.

'Well you 'eard of one now, Capt'n Blackmouth!'

Captain Jorgensen suddenly threw back his head and laughed. Then he took his purse from his jacket and added five English pounds to the American money. 'Be reasonable, Sally. You says you loves them both, but only one o' them be an owner of your titty!' He paused and spread his hands. 'Now that ain't fair!'

'Nobody owns me titty less they pays for it, and then it be only temporary!' Sperm Whale Sally said, eyeing the money on the table.

Jorgen Jorgensen pointed at his American counterpart. 'The Merryweather has got a titty permanent and the Sturmvogel ain't! If, as you says, they earned a True Blue the same, then we be entitled to one titty each. Now that be a fair proposition!'

'No!' Sperm Whale Sally shouted. 'And don't call me Sally, that be the privilege o' me friends!'

'Then will you cross it out?' Jorgen Jorgensen snapped back. He made an X in the air with his fingers. 'Svensen can put an X through that name, then the matter be finished and all's fair and square.'

Captain Perriman banged his ebony cane on the table and pointed to Sperm Whale Sally. 'Oh no you don't!' he cried. 'That tattoo on your portside titty belong to us and we ain't giving it up! No ma'am, not now, not never!' Then he turned and glared at the master of the Sturmvogel. 'We be rightfully the best ship, captain, and we aims to stay that way!'

The master of the Sturmvogel took out his wallet and threw it onto the pile in front of Sperm Whale Sally. 'You said it don't mean nothing, so now I'm paying you to cross it out!'

'Certainly!' Sperm Whale Sally said reaching over and picking up the ten English pounds, and leaving the American ten dollar bill on the table.

Captain Perriman went to his pocket and produced two more ten dollar bills and placed them on the table.

Jorgen Jorgensen matched him with another five pounds. 'Now we fight!' he said.

At that very moment Ikey arrived, pushing his way through the crowd, his basket bouncing on his arm. Sperm Whale Sally saw him coming and threw up her arms and shouted, 'Ikey Solomon, thank Gawd you come! I needs a spruiker what's gunna stop murder happenin'!'

Ikey looked about him and put his basket under the table. 'What's going on? There is nobody nowhere except here, my dear! The brothels are all closed, the cock fight's over early, all the other public houses be empty.' He pointed to the money on the table. 'Jesus! Who belongs to that?'

Sperm Whale Sally shook her head and quickly whispered the story to Ikey.

'Leave the details to me, my dear. I thinks we're going to be rich before this night be out!' Ikey said and then straightened up. 'It's me rheumatism, lift me up on the table please, my dear,' he requested.

Sperm Whale Sally rose slowly to her feet, and picked him up and placed him on the table.

'Ladies and gentlemen.' Ikey paused and grinned. 'That is if any here has the right to be called by either salutation!' This brought a laugh from the crowd and he waited for it to die down then paced the length of the table as though deep in thought. Finally he lifted his head and addressed the crowd.

'What we has here be a puzzlement and a problem, a bedevilment o' purpose and a contradiction o' temperament, what can be summed up and put together as a conundrum what is not easy to solve, my dears.' He spread out his hands and wiggled his long fingers as though they were groping for an invisible object. 'We got two tits! One what's snowy white and t'other what's got an Indian head and Tomahawk wrote all over it!' He paused to accept the laughter of the crowd. 'One what's occupied and one what's vacant! One what's rented and one what's seeking a tenant. And that be the conundrum!'

Ikey paused and pointed to Tomahawk, who seemed not to have moved a muscle since he'd arrived. 'We have here this most honourable Red Indian gentleman by the name o' Mr Tomahawk! And…' he pointed to Black Boss Cape Town, 'the most worthy gentleman of African extraction by name o' Mr Black Boss Cape Town. Both is true blue and much loved by our very own Sperm Whale Sally!'

There was a cheer from the crowd at the mention of Sperm Whale Sally's name followed by some laughter at this amorous menage a trois.

Ikey held his hand up for silence. 'Hands up them who wants to see these two lovely whalemen in a contest o' strength for the gaining o' tenancy to the two most beautiful and imposing and desirable areas o' mammary accommodation in the Pacific Ocean?'

There was a roar from the patrons and, seemingly, the hands of almost all the drinkers shot up. Ikey turned slightly and from the corner of his mouth whispered, 'Count the money, my dear.'

Sperm Whale Sally reached over and gathered up the money. She had long since counted it, but now she pretended to do so again.

'We have here some stiff what could be used as prize money if the two captains here agrees,' Ikey said. The crowd roared their approval and he turned to Jorgen Jorgensen and Blackmouth Perriman. 'What say you, gentlemen?'

They immediately agreed and Ikey turned to Sperm Whale Sally. 'What be the wager, my dear?'

'Fifteen pounds English, thirty Yankee dollars, lovey.' It was enough to feed her for several months and she was filled with consternation that Ikey might be giving it away as the wager.

The crowd gasped, it was a huge amount of money, more than double what a crew member received for a season of whaling. Ikey looked over the heads of the crowd until he saw Michael O'Flaherty. 'Publican! Your presence please!' he called.

Ikey turned and addressed both captains again. 'Michael O'Flaherty be as good a man as ever tapped a barrel of ale, gentlemen. Will you accept him to hold your money? If you do not agree to accept the rules o' the contest, then you shall have every penny back.'

Both captains nodded and O'Flaherty gathered up the money on the table. Ikey held his hand up until he had absolute silence.

'Ladies and gentlemen, as you knows Sperm Whale Sally will not tolerate violence.' He pointed to Tomahawk and Black Boss Cape Town. 'And no harm is to come to her true blue lads.' He paused so the full effect of his pronouncement could be heard. 'So, I now announces a grand contest of Indian arm wrestlin'!'

There was a groan from the crowd. Their minds were intent on the idea of a bloody fight between the two giant savages, and though a contest of arm wrestling would decide equally well who was the superior of the two, there is nothing like the taste of blood to excite a crowd.

Captain Perriman tapped his long stick on the table. 'And what about the money?' he demanded.

Ikey shrugged his shoulders and spread his hands. 'Why, my dear, the winner takes all!'

Sperm Whale Sally looked as though she might faint away and standing up shakily she slapped at Ikey's ankle. 'Oi! You gorn mad or somethin'?' she said in a loud whisper.

Ikey bent down so that only she could hear his reply. 'Trust me, my dear.' Then he straightened up and addressed the crowd. 'The winner o' the grand arm wrestlin' stakes all his winnings on the second grand contest o' the night!'

'Two contests?' Captain Jorgen Jorgensen asked. 'Why does not one decide?'

'Two grand arm wrestlin' contests!' Ikey replied, ignoring him. 'But first the rules and conditions! If Tomahawk should win then he will be given a chance to enter a second arm wrestlin' challenge, and if he should win this too, then the Merryweather tattoo stays!'

There was a roar of approval from the crowd. It meant that the Tomahawk tattoo would be truly earned in virtuous combat.

'If Black Boss Cape Town wins then we crosses out the tattoo and he may challenge again, and if he wins again then he will have a tattoo of the Sturmvogel placed upon the breast of Sperm Whale Sally!'

'And if each should win one contest?' Captain Perriman asked.

'That won't be possible, Captain,' Ikey said firmly. 'The second contest will be followed immediately after the first and will be against the wrestlin' arm o' Sperm Whale Sally!'

There was a moment of astonished silence, then the crowd burst into laughter at such an absurd idea. Ikey avoided looking at Sally so he did not see the look of utter dismay on her face. Had she been an integral part of some elaborate scam where she was required to act out her consternation in order to gull her mark, she could not possibly have performed better. She had trusted Ikey and he had caused her to lose a fortune.

Ikey turned to the two masters. 'Are you agreed, gentlemen?'

'That be most fair,' Captain Perriman, the first to recover from the surprise at this absurd idea, replied.

'Aye, it be right by us,' the master of the Sturmvogel said, still smiling at the idea of arm wrestling the giant whore.

'Mr O'Flaherty, will you please bring the stools and table for the contest?' Ikey asked. Then he announced to the crowd, 'Ladies and gentlemen, I shall be running a book, though only for your sporting interest, so that some o' the fine gentlemen here tonight might double their money!' He paused and took a breath, 'It's evens I offers on both contestants!'

What this meant, of course, was that Ikey could make no profit from the betting and this was thought most sporting by all, so there was considerable applause. 'One more detail, my dears!' Ikey shouted. 'I shall be offering twenty to one odds on Sperm "Whale Sally, and two to one on whoever wins the first contest! As this contest will take place immediately after the first you should lay your bets for both now!'

There was a general guffaw. Had the odds even been two hundred to one placed on Sperm Whale Sally, only a fool would have ventured a shilling on the likelihood of her winning. But the chance of doubling their money on either Black Boss Cape Town or Tomahawk was a most attractive proposition. It is a testimony to greed that, in a room full of cut throats and thieves, no one paused to suspect Ikey's motives or ask how he would pay his bets if Sperm Whale Sally lost.

Meanwhile, Sperm Whale Sally was quite beside herself. 'You'll not count me in on the betting, Ikey Solomon!' she said, her voice fraught with anxiety. 'I can't cover no losses.'

'Has I ever let you down in the past, my dear? Have you not profited gloriously in our mutual dealings?'

'Ha! That were before! But now I thinks you've gorn meshugannah! We've lost all that lovely money, now you's making barmy bets and I'm gunna end up with some bastard writin' all over me tits with a bloody needle!'

'Trust me, my dear, leave it all to your Uncle Ikey! At worst, maybe a little scratch on your titty. But there be a lot o' stiff to be won.' He paused and added, 'That reminds me, my dear, naturally we goes fifty-fifty with the winnings?'

'What bleedin' winnin's! You just gave the bloody money back to them two bastards!' She stabbed a finger in the direction of the ships' masters. 'You said winner takes all!'

'Only temporarily, my dear. Only for the Irishman to hold so everything looks kosher, above board, and exceedingly honest, and not to be doubted. In truth our winnings, my dear? Do you agree, fifty-fifty?'

'Jesus!' Sperm Whale Sally threw up her hands. 'Yes! Fifty-fifty o' fuck all! 'Elp your bleedin' self!' She looked as though she might cry. 'Ikey, how am I gunna arm wrestle one o' them monsters?'

'Now don't you fret, my dear, it be so easy it ain't even a proper scam worthy o' my intelligence!'

The table and stools were set in place for the contest, and the two giants made to take their seats. Michael O'Flaherty was given the role as the referee and the two masters were appointed as judges.

The rules of arm wrestling are universal and simple enough. The first man to push the back of the hand of his opponent to the table and hold it there for a count of three would be declared the winner. Ten minutes was allowed for the two contestants to tune up their muscles by building up a proper resistance against the arms of members of their own crew.

Ikey used the time to make book and as he expected, after each punter had bet on his favourite, he bet his winnings to continue on the winner of the first bout so that not a single bet was placed on Sperm Whale Sally.

Two glasses of fiery Cape brandy were brought and placed in front of Tomahawk and Black Boss Cape Town. Tomahawk had not uttered a word all evening and his silence, contrasted with the ebullient black man, had made him the favourite to win, the strength of silence being reckoned greater than the force of bombast.

Black Boss Cape Town lifted the brandy in his left hand, and bending his right arm showed his huge bicep to the crowd. 'We fight!' he said looking directly at Tomahawk and then threw back his head and tossed down the fiery drink in one gulp.

Tomahawk picked up his glass and for the very first time he looked at the huge black savage seated opposite him. 'You die, nigger!' he said and he too tossed down his brandy.

Black Boss Cape Town smiled and placed his glass down and reached out and patted Tomahawk on the top of his head. 'Goet boy!'

The Red Indian shot up from his stool and grabbed the throat of the huge black man. But Black Boss Cape Town had anticipated the move and his own hand moving from Tomahawk's head simultaneously clasped around the throat of the American savage. Then Tomahawk's left hand, still holding the brandy glass, slammed down on the edge of the table and in a flash the raw edge of the broken glass smashed into the face of his opponent. A huge crimson arc appeared under Black Boss Cape Town's eye as the jet black skin of his face opened up.

Black Boss Cape Town did not appear to flinch nor even lighten his grip on Tomahawk's throat, but his left fist swung around and smashed against the side of Tomahawk's face. A great hammer blow which felled the Red Indian. The big black pushed the table over and raised his boot to kick Tomahawk in the face when he was suddenly jerked backwards off his feet by a huge arm which gripped him about the neck in a wrestler's stranglehold. Thrown off balance, he could do nothing as Sperm Whale Sally's arm tightened about his throat.

'Now, now, there's a good gentleman, we'll have none o' that!' she hissed into his ear. She held Black Boss Cape Town in a lethal grip as the crew of the Merryweather hurried to pull the bewildered Tomahawk to his feet. Sperm Whale Sally increased her grip on Black Boss Cape Town and addressed the two startled captains. 'You will have your men arm wrestle or not at all, there will be no fights, do you understand, gentlemen?'

Black Boss Cape Town was near to fainting from the pressure she applied and should he have tried to regain his feet his neck would have snapped like a twig. Both captains nodded and Sperm Whale Sally spoke to her captive. 'Do you understand, Mr Black Boss Cape Town?'

An almost imperceptible sound came from the black man's throat. 'Bring me some sea sponges, Bridget!' she shouted towards the bar. 'And a bucket o' salt water!' She turned to Black Boss Cape Town. 'Sit down, lad, lemme fix your ugly gob!' Then Sperm Whale Sally released the huge harpooner from her deadly grip and pushed him into her whale's tail chair. 'Be there a doctor?' she shouted as she took a sponge from Bridget and applied pressure to the wound on Black Boss Cape Town's face.

It was not unusual for a member of the medical profession, either surgeon or dentist, to be present in a public house. And in a few moments, Surgeon Balthasar Tompkins stepped from the crowd and waddled towards where Sally sat. It was obvious he was somewhat the worse for wear and he rocked on his heels as he examined Black Boss Cape Town's face.

'Horsehair!' he bellowed. 'Horsehair and needle!'

In a few moments his young male assistant appeared carrying a bag and it was he who appeared to be doing all the work. But then he handed the needle and horsehair to the physician, who stitched the wound with surprising dexterity, neatly snipping each knot as he worked.

Throughout the procedure Black Boss Cape Town remained calm, only flinching slightly during the suturing. Finally the fat physician completed the task and Sperm Whale Sally wiped what remained of the blood from his face. It was a crude enough job, but it held well and there had not been sufficient blood loss for Black Boss Cape Town to have lost any of his strength.

At that moment Ikey's small frightened face appeared from under Sperm Whale Sally's Tasmanian oak table and, seeing all was well again, he emerged completely and assumed a nonchalant position.

'The bets are laid. The Indian arm wrestle contest be still on!' he shouted at Michael O'Flaherty. 'What say you, gentlemen?'

The crowd yelled their approval, and the two ships' masters glanced at each other and after a few moments nodded their consent. Ikey breathed a huge sigh of relief. He felt quite weak at the knees at the thought of losing the money.

The two men walked slowly back to the stools. 'To your positions, please,' O'Flaherty called. The Irishman held up a large red bandanna. 'Take the strain. Go!' he shouted, dropping the cloth.

The two men's arms stiffened as they took the strain, one then the other making his play. Pressure was slowly applied which would bend one arm close to the surface of the table while the onlookers screamed their encouragement to the man on whom they had placed their bet. Sweat fell from their faces and chests, and the linen of their coarse shirts was soaked through, but still there was no advantage to either. Sometimes they would rest in the centre, and then one would try a sudden lunge to catch the other by surprise. But while both came close to victory, neither could lay the other's hand down upon the table.

After forty minutes it was obvious that the strength was leaching from both men, though it appeared that Tomahawk was gradually gaining the advantage. The Red Indian was the younger man and, in the end, it seemed he would prove the stronger. The muscles on both their arms strained mightily, and at one point the biceps of Black Boss Cape Town started to cramp and he knew he must surely lose. The strain as he held his opponent's arm was so intense that the blood started to pump from between the sutures on his face and run down his cheek. Then, just as he felt his strength finally deserting him, the Red Indian's eyes suddenly filled with pain as he, too, was gripped by a violent muscle spasm and his huge biceps convulsed and his nose started to bleed copiously.

Still they held on, the Indian forcing the black man's hand almost to the table top, before it would be slowly lifted, each movement greatly taxing both wrestlers. The punters had taken to screaming with each turnabout as though, by their voices alone, they could add strength to the man they had backed.

Finally Tomahawk began to sense he had the black man's measure. The front of both their shirts was now drenched with blood as well as sweat. Beads of perspiration shone in the crinkly hair of Black Boss Cape Town, and the smooth dark hair of his opponent lay soaked against his coppery skin. Slowly, agonisingly slowly, Tomahawk worked his opponent's arm, forcing it towards the surface of the table. Black Boss Cape Town's hand was no more than an inch from the table when he spat into Tomahawk's face.

The shock was so great that the giant Red Indian lost control, and Black Boss forced his hand back to the upright position, and then over to the other side so that Tomahawk's hand was now only an inch from the table on the African's side.

Suddenly there rose in Tomahawk's throat a cry that seemed to come from deep within his belly as the black man's bloody spittle ran down his face. His eyes burned in his head as his hand rose and rose, pushing the negro's fist to the upright position and then slowly down, until, with a second great wail, he smashed the top of Black Boss Cape Town's hand onto the table. It was all over. Tomahawk had won the contest, though both men were too exhausted to lift their heads, and their arms lay limp and useless on the table.

Sperm Whale Sally moved across to where Tomahawk sat and gently raised his head. With a wet sea sponge she wiped his face clean. Then she did the same for Black Boss Cape Town, wiping the blood from his cheek. 'You both true blue, both my good lads!'

Ikey had somehow climbed back onto the table, and now he began to wave his hands and shout until the pandemonium ceased. 'I can't make no payment on the bets until the contest be complete!' Finally the crowd noise calmed down sufficiently for him to be heard. 'Tomahawk be the declared winner o' the first contest, now he must arm wrestle against Sperm Whale Sally!' He turned to the master of the Sturmvogel. 'Please captain, move your man!' Ikey pointed at the black man.

'Ikey! Whatever are you doing? These boys be exhausted,' Sperm Whale Sally shouted up at him.

'Yes, yes indeed, my dear, we must hurry, sit, sit, there is no time to waste!'

Sally suddenly realised what Ikey was up to, and as quickly as possible for someone her size, adjusted her massive bottom upon the vacated stool opposite Tomahawk.

'Will you get your hand up now, lad!' Michael O'Flaherty said to the exhausted and bewildered Red Indian.

Tomahawk raised his hand and Sperm Whale Sally grabbed it and held it steady while both their elbows were pressed down on the table.

'Lady and gentleman, take your positions, please! May the best, er… contestant win.' O'Flaherty again held up the red bandanna. 'Take the strain. Go!'

Tomahawk had regained a surprising amount of strength in the few minutes he'd been allowed to rest and tried to force his opponent's hand down in one great effort. This was a big mistake. Sperm Whale Sally's hand dipped and then lowered almost to the surface of the table, but there it held, draining the Red Indian of all his remaining strength, then she forced it back to the upright position and started to push downwards. As publican of the Pig 'n Spit she had been required to stack and lift beer barrels on the full, and her fat was deceptive. She was very strong. What new strength Tomahawk had recovered was entirely spent on his first onslaught and not five minutes later Sperm Whale Sally slammed the back of the exhausted harpooner's hand onto the table.

It was a fitting ending. For generations whalers would tell the story of how the two greatest harpooners in the world had fought for the right to challenge the spirit of the great sperm whale. How after a great fight lasting several hours, between two of the strongest men in the world, the American Red Indian had won over the African giant. Then he pitted himself against the spirit of the great whale and was crushed in less than ten minutes. But the spirit of the great sperm whale would never desert them, nor any of the ships that flew the Blue Sally. But the greatest of the catch seemed always to go to the Merryweather and the Sturmvogel. Or so the legend goes.

It was all over. Ikey and Sperm Whale Sally had made a killing. Not only did they possess the money from both the Merryweather and the Sturmvogel, but they cleared nearly twenty pounds on the bets placed by the drinkers. Ikey could not remember when he had enjoyed himself as much, though he was a trifle disappointed when Sperm Whale Sally insisted that they buy drinks for the crews of both ships. Then to much shouting, joshing and general banter, Sperm Whale Sally bared her left titty and allowed Svensen, the tattoo artist from the Sturmvogel, to tattoo an X, cancelling the name Tomahawk.

'It be better this way, my lovies,' Sperm Whale Sally announced to the crew members who stood around her. 'Now you both be equal true blue! Both be equally blessed by the great good luck o' the spirit o' the sperm whale!' She paused, for she could see that the men from the Merryweather did not look altogether happy with this pronouncement and seemed reluctant to accept her blessing. 'One more thing be essential if we is to repair what happened tonight,' she announced solemnly. 'If you wishes to keep the luck o' the great sperm, you must do the spirit a final bidding.' She looked at Black Boss Cape Town and then at Tomahawk. 'You two must shake hands. Make peace the pair of you! You has broken your luck with your hatred and there is only one way to regain it. You must be friends.' She grinned and waited a moment and then said, 'As friends, together you must beach the whale tonight!'

There was a sudden howl of approval from both crews as the tension between them dissolved and they began to shake hands and drink to the health and happy hunting of both ships. Black Boss Cape Town extended his hand to Tomahawk, who took it and smiled, 'Good man!' he said. Black Boss Cape Town threw back his head and laughed. 'We fight!' he boomed happily, toasting the giant Red Indian.

Sperm Whale Sally took both giants by the hand and led them out of the Whale Fishery and into the dark towards the small beach that lay not fifty yards away.

The moon had climbed to its zenith, a bright silver coin suspended high above the great mountain. A million stars pricked a sky now closer to morning than to midnight. As Sperm Whale Sally sat upon the soft sand, a gentle wave washed into shore and she waited for the sound of it to retreat before she pointed to the giant African.

'Black Boss Cape Town, you be first and don't squeeze me left titty, it be most tender!' She laughed and then turned her head towards the Red Indian. 'You follow quick, Tomahawk. It must be done quick, the one after t'other, so the spirit o' the great sperm whale will reach you both in equal portion, and bring you the same great good luck in the next whalin' season!'

Sperm Whale Sally sighed and lifted her skirts above her gargantuan thighs. 'Jesus, I be starvin' hungry,' she thought as she fell on her back into the soft sand and watched the stars. 'The things a girl has to do to make a shillin'! I hope that bastard O'Flaherty ain't cancelled tonight's Blue Sally challenge, or I'll be obliged to eat both these bloody savages!' She guffawed inwardly at the notion as the shape of Black Boss Cape Town blotted out the moon. 'Oh Gawd, 'ere we goes again,' she thought. 'Lie back and think of a nice little pot roast, my girl!'