precisely, her subsequent snooty behaviour towards all, that the charges were dismissed. The deputy police magistrate ruled that equal blame was attached to both parties. He warned both husband and wife that should such disorderly proceedings be repeated they would be returned to prison. Then, to the chagrin of some, and great amusement of most, he charged the assistant district constable, George Madden, to keep an eye on both husband and wife.
With the protection of George Madden, Hannah and David could do more or less as they wished and they lost no time in reducing Ikey to a most perilous state. He was unable to obtain work of any sort, though in this endeavour he did not seem to try very hard, and a word from the wealthy and influential Madden put a stop to any employer hiring him. David had also spread the word around that Ikey cheated at cribbage, which was true enough, so that there were none who would play with him, and this dried up Ikey's traditional source of drinking money.
Finally a desperate Ikey was provoked into prosecuting his wife. The deputy district magistrate, not at all pleased with the return of the miscreant couple to his court, to the delight of the townsfolk, brought in a verdict that the charge of disorderly conduct and the use of obscene language was proved. He ordered that Hannah be returned to the Female Factory for a period of three months.
After many such disputes, the authorities became thoroughly disenchanted with 'The tribe of Solomon' as the chief probationary officer was wont to call Ikey's family. After some interdepartmental discussion, the authorities made one final ruling. The family should attempt a reconciliation in New Norfolk. But, if this should not come about, either husband or wife, but not both, must move to Hobart Town, with or without the remainder of the family. Having moved, they would not be permitted to return to New Norfolk until they received a conditional pardon. The authorities saw this as a clause so onerous that the quarrelsome couple would make every possible effort to reconcile their differences.
But, of course, no such thing happened. At first Hannah tried to persuade George Madden to move to Hobart, but he refused. He had obtained a five-year contract from Peter Degraves of the Cascade Brewery for the excellent barley grown in the area which would allow him to build his own mill. Hannah, faced with this logic, was forced to capitulate. Somehow she must force Ikey to move to Hobart, and in this endeavour she received the full co- operation of her family.
With no recourse to the law, Ikey was a doomed man. Hannah ordered him out of the house first thing each morning and he was not allowed to enter it again until curfew in the evening. His only sustenance was a small plate of boiled potatoes, and no member of the family would deign to talk to him.
Each day Ikey became more of the vagabond. His bald pate went unprotected from the sun and the unkempt hair either side of it now fell to his shoulders. Somewhere he had acquired a great coat which he tied about his waist with coarse string. This ragged garment served him in appearance as his splendid bespoke great coat had once served him in England. But whereas a glance at the greasy original would have revealed the quality of the wool and sound workmanship beneath the dirt, this equally dirty coat was poorly made and threadbare. Ikey's yellow London boots now became his prison shoes, scuffed and broken away at the toe.
Ikey Solomon, Prince of Fences, the most celebrated criminal of his time, was brought to his knees, not by the vicissitudes of a prisoner's life, but by the unforgiving judgements of his wife and children.
Hannah was now frequently seen in the company of George Madden, though she had not yet moved back into his spacious home. She waited until Ikey had reached a point of abject despair and then offered him an ultimatum; he must give her the combination and also sell the cottage in Hobart so that David might use the money to go to England to open the Whitechapel safe. But to this she added a new clause. Ikey would not receive half of their shared fortune, but only one-eighth.
Hannah had decided that the entire fortune was to be divided equally between the two of them and their six children. She knew that a one-eighth share of the contents of the safe was still sufficient for Ikey to live in comparative luxury for the remainder of his life in Van Diemen's Land. With seven-eighths of their combined fortune under her direct control, Hannah told herself she was willing to sacrifice an estimated fifty thousand pounds, 'for being well rid of the mangy bastard'.
If he did not agree to these conditions, Hannah told him, he could go to hell. She would live with George Madden and wait for Ikey to die. Whereupon she would send her sons to England to remove the safe and bring it to Van Diemen's Land, where they would eventually find some way to open it. Ikey knew this threat to be idle, the safe having been fixed into a block of mortar too large to lift and, besides, it was fitted with a German combination lock of the same type used by the Bank of England, and no cracksman in Britain could ever hope to open it. But he was possessed of a morbid foreboding of his own death, and Hannah's willingness to wait until it occurred meant that he might die a pauper, a useless old lag, never able to enjoy the revenge of his wealth.
Ikey knew he should leave New Norfolk and move to Hobart. But he could not bring himself to do so for he lacked the necessary courage to cut himself off from his family. Ikey, the rich loner with a family for whom he cared not at all, was a far cry from Ikey, the poor loner with no future prospects, who lacked the internal fortitude and even the energy to begin again in the chancy business of crime.
Ikey tried to convince himself that Hobart was too small for a fence of his reputation, but he knew this to be only an excuse. His bones ached and the yellow teeth rattled in his head, and he saw death in every sunset. Ikey knew he would not survive another sentence. Fear gripped at his bowels and sucked the marrow of resolve from his bones, until it was better to get drunk than to think at all.
Sometimes, when the sun shone brightly and warmed his creaking bones, Ikey would consider his prospects in a more sober frame of mind. He could go kosher, that is to say, above board and respectable, a small businessman, perhaps a return to his tobacco shop. The sale of the cottage would supply the capital needed. But he knew in his heart that this was simply a quicker and quieter way to die.
Ikey loved the nocturnal life, the whispers and the knowing looks of criminal intrigue, the hard-eyed bargaining, the joy of a deal well struck and the satisfaction of a neatly laid-out ledger which marked in numbers the progress of his private war against those who would bring him undone. He thought of himself as the enemy, and expected to be taken seriously by the rich and mighty. He was the destructive element in a world carefully constructed to benefit the self-serving better classes. Ikey had beaten the law dozens of times in a system that thought nothing of hanging a boy for stealing twopence. And now the same system had beaten him, not with imprisonment, but by stealing his courage. Ikey knew that, without courage, there is no luck and no hope. He who dares, wins. For him to become a respectable small businessman on an island steeped in the blood and sorrow of the outrageous system against which he had always pitted his cunning and his wits would be the greatest defeat of all.
Ikey needed the fortune which lay in the Whitechapel safe to publicly proclaim the victory of his salvaged wealth. He knew he had been defeated. But the money he had stolen would at least allow him to flaunt his pyrrhic victory and so hide the immensity of that defeat, whereas meek respectability would forever emphasise his complete destruction.
This was the state of Ikey Solomon in October 1837 when he sat alone on the banks of the Derwent River watching a cormorant on a rock some distance off, its wet wings opened wide to the heat of the late morning sun.
'Mr Solomon?' The voice of a small boy came from behind him.
Ikey turned to see an urchin of about twelve standing a few feet to his left. The Ikey of old would have long since sensed the approach.
'Mr Ikey Solomon?' the boy repeated.
'You knows it's me, boy, so why does you ask?' Ikey said gruffly.
'I was told I must,' the boy replied.
'Told was you? And who might it be what told you?'
'I runs errands, sir,'
'Runs errands?' Ikey's voice changed to a more friendly tone. 'A working boy, a respectable boy, a boy what's not footloose and up to no good!' Ikey held a dirty hand out in the direction of the boy. 'Ah, I don't believe we 'as been introduced, my dear.'
'I knows who you is,' the urchin said, not taking Ikey's hand and seeing no reason to proffer his own or give Ikey his name.
'Ha! So you knows who I is. But you asks who I is. Is that not a curious thing to do? Askin' and knowin'?' Ikey returned his hand to his side.
