Bryce Courtenay - The Potato Factory

'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.