The Crate

Mary Watters looked across the table to her friend Susan, who was running her fingers over the crisp, white sheet wrapping the wooden crate. A few days before, that long box bumped its way by packhorse over dusty roads to the small mining town of Limestone, protecting a consignment for the local store. Now the improvised coffin enclosed Esther Gallagher, Susan’s sister.

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Miners – photographed by Reverend Federic Charles Hall
© Kenwyn Arthur Hall
Photograph is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial-NoDerivatives 4.0 International License

Mary’s three-year-old brother, John, squirmed from his mother’s arms to come and stand beside his older sister. Esther had been the same age. Sorrow grasped Mary’s shoulders and shook out the sobs.

Without warning, a wind gust dislodged the stick propping open the galvanised iron window shutter. A blast of hot air entered the split-log shack as it did from Mrs Gallagher’s colonial oven when the bread came out. And the children clamoured for a crust from the steaming loaves.

Colonial Oven – Rockhampton Heritage Village – from their Facebook page

In Limestone, there was no baker for bread, no doctor for Esther, no priest for the funeral.

In Limestone, vessels for water from the creek were kerosine tins. The ore bucket was a stitched bullock hide. A mattress was grass-filled calico.

Gentle hands on Mary’s shoulders guided her away from the tiny coffin. She and her mother joined the others, ready for the long, dusty walk to the cemetery.

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Author’s note: This is a piece of flash fiction. Not fiction because the funeral didn’t happen (it took place in 1897) but because it is unlikely Mary Watters was there. However, the Watters family was in the Limestone area for 3 to 5 years before about 1896, and I wanted the story to represent conditions the family faced. You can read more about life in the Limestone and Maytown mining areas online in the book Barefoot Through the Bindies referenced in the Bibliography.

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Bibliography
Houldsworth, Marion, and Susan Gallagher. “Maytown Girl.” In Barefoot Through the Bindies, 37–51. Brisbane, Queensland: Boolarong Press, 2012. https://books.google.com.au/books?id=IEgexYAnkFAC&printsec=frontcover&dq=barefoot through the bindis&hl=en&sa=X&ved=0ahUKEwigldjRvZHnAhWaV30KHc2xCYYQ6AEIJzAA#v=onepage&q&f=false
‘Reverend Frederic Charles Hall Photographic Collection’. n.d. Accessed at https://nqheritage.jcu.edu.au/view/collections/rfc=5Fhpc.html.
‘Rockhampton Heritage Village – Posts’. Accessed at https://www.facebook.com/RockhamptonHeritageVillage/photos/a.828428230544165/927150837338570/.

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Genealogy Snapshot

Name: Mary Izetta Watters (1890-1966)
Parents:  James Watters (1857-1922) and Caroline Jones (1866-1942) 
Spouse: Thomas English Burden (1884-1979)
Spouse’s Parents: Philip Henry Burden (1851-1902) and Rachel Ann English (1853-1940)
Surnames: Watters, Jones, Burden, English
Relationship to Chris: Mary is Chris’s grandmother

1. Mary Izetta Watters (1890-1966) (grandmother)
2. Mother
3. Chris

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Cobbles

Ellen’s shoes drummed on the damp cobblestones as she walked along the street, her black eyes sunk into her pale face. William’s small hand was in hers, the other clutched a piece of bread.

“Well, look here, ‘tis yerself, Ellen, out of gaol. And with young Willie, too.” The familiar lilt of her friend’s Corkonian accent hung in the mist of the early morning air.

Ellen’s dark hair flicked as she stopped and looked behind her. “And in no rush to go back again, Moses.”

Several days before, her one month’s sentence over, Ellen Purcell stepped through the doorway of Cork City Gaol into the open and freedom. The nail-studded oak door announced her release with a bang as she stepped beneath the site of past hangings, the fatal drop. She shuddered at the thought.

Cork City Gaol Entrance
https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Cork_city_gaol_(8170670103).jpg

Now Moses Murphy stood at the entrance to a long, narrow alley, unseen on Ellen’s initial pass. Wisps of brown hair reached under his flat cap toward dark brows. Moses was almost 20 years older than Ellen; they were friends, especially since she became godmother to his daughter, Angelina. Seven years ago Ellen stood in Carey’s Lane Chapel, the church of the central parish of Saint Peter’s and Paul’s and proclaimed her Catholic faith on behalf of the baby.

With a furtive glance for any eavesdropping shadows, Moses motioned Ellen into the lane. They were alone, apart from two small children who sat in a doorway further in where no sunlight ever reached, even now, approaching the summer solstice. The youngsters gnawed on licked-clean bones, likely scavenged from the nearby rubbish pile Ellen saw. She wrinkled her nose as its foul fingers extended to the street.

It was 1848 and a common sight these days. Ireland was in the throes of the catastrophic Great Famine. The starving rural poor streamed into the city in search of work, food, or a ship to deliver them from their peril. Cork was Ireland’s main emigration port, and those unable to afford the fares crammed into the slums of the city’s lanes and alleys.

Eloquence at the Eisteddfod

     ...
     “Shoot, if you must, this old gray head, 
     But spare your country’s flag,” she said.
 
     A shade of sadness, a blush of shame, 
     Over the face of the leader came;
 
     The nobler nature within him stirred
     To life at that woman’s deed and word;
 
     “Who touches a hair of yon gray head 
     Dies like a dog! March on!” he said.
     ...

            Barbara Frietchie 
            by John Greenleaf Whittier 

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The voice of my grandmother fills my head, accompanied by visions of ‘soldier’ children marching around the kitchen table, broomsticks over their shoulders.

I’m not sure if this is an actual memory of my older brothers wielding the broomsticks, or if it is the memory of a story told. The story would have been of earlier times and the children, my Dad, my uncles, and their cousin.

The Crossing

Bob heard the roar of the water well before he saw it. Was this yet another barrier between his sick father and the Cooktown Hospital? Then, as Bob and the others approached the banks of the Laura River, the heavens opened. The men carried Jim the last few yards through a terrific downpour. He was lying on the stretcher Bob had found at the old, deserted hospital at Maytown.  As if the rain wasn’t enough to dampen Bob’s spirits, his heart sank when his eyes confirmed what he’d heard. Sweet, gentle Laura, usually so quiet and placid, was filled with flooding water and awakened. Animated, she became an angry she-devil, gathering small trees and bushes in her arms to bring them along for the ride. How would she treat Jim when it was his turn on the water? 

Signals at Sea

This  carries on from a previous blog post – Crossing the Line

The visit from King Neptune was a welcome interruption to the routine of the previous four weeks for those aboard the William Money. Richard and the other emigrants gained their sea legs, and life settled into a schedule of domestic chores.

Wednesdays and Saturdays, if fine, were reserved for washing. Wet clothes and linen draped over every available surface and hung from ropes strung between the rigging. Richard thought it looked like the rag fair selling secondhand clothes that he had seen in Plymouth.

On Sundays, the captain created the perfect place for the church service on deck. He fashioned a reading desk by draping the Union Jack over the harness cask and hiding its usual purpose, which was to soak the daily salted provisions. It was here he delivered the prayers of the established church to passengers and crew, who were seated on barrels  and boxes. The numerous Methodists on board had their own, separate prayer meetings on Sunday evenings and sometimes on Fridays as well. Richard and his family were Anglican. They had the choice of the service on deck, or the Methodist prayer meeting with their Cornish brethren.

Crossing the Line

“Please, Mother, pleease.” Richard tugged at Ann’s arm hoping it might encourage her to change her mind. Ann, scraping the porridge pot ready for washing up, pulled her arm away from his grip. Mary Ann looked on, hoping for a positive answer. Richard’s new friend James Thomas was nearby, also anticipating Ann’s reply. 

“No, you got absolutely soaked last night in that foolish nonsense. ‘Tis a wonder you haven’t woken up with a fever. Lord only knows what could happen to ‘ee today. You could come back bald as a coot.”

The previous night, Richard had been on deck with James, driven there by the warm, oppressive air below. The days and nights were getting hotter. Some passengers resorted to dragging their straw mattresses onto the deck and sleeping there in their clothes. 

As they stepped in amongst the temporary beds of other passengers, Richard and James pondered on what they’d seen during the day. 

“What do you suppose they are going to do with all that stuff?” Richard asked James.

His friend shrugged. 

The actions of some of the crew mystified them. The sailors had been gathering dresses and wigs from below and storing them in the fo’c’stle. Razors, lather and pill bottles joined the booty. When the boys stole glances at the stash in the sailor’s den, the secretive crew chased them away. 

“Ain’t nothin’ here for you.”

Sea Legs – September 1848

He moaned with the latest pitch and lurch of the ship as the odours of hundreds of bodies, damp bedding and water closets imprisoned him in his bed. Nine-year-old Richard Grenfell had never felt so ill. He lay there, staring at the bunk overhead and fixed his gaze on a knot in the timber. Yet still his body detected movement, a conundrum that made his stomach heave. Perspiration gathered in little beads on his skin. His mother, Ann, wiped his forehead with a damp cloth, and Richard managed a feeble smile. He rolled onto his side. Beyond Ann, his two younger brothers played, unaffected by the tilt and rolling that distressed him.

Four-year-old Nicholas saw Richard looking at him, and with a few wobbly steps to counter the ship’s action, he was at his brother’s bedside. “Be ‘ee sick, Dickie?” He put his hand on Richard’s clammy arm. Richard nodded, but the slight movement threw his balance into confusion.

Denis Bennett in Liverpool

Patrick stood open mouthed. After a time he managed to say, “Oh that is so pretty. I wish I could buy that for Ma.”

Denis smiled.

John laughed, a wisdom bestowed by his extra six years. “Oh yeah, that would look lovely, sitting on the box in the corner of our room.”

Patrick pouted.  “Well I’m going to shoe horses like Bernard when I get bigger and have enough money to buy Ma a silver tea set. It will have writing on it, just like this one. It will say ‘to Ma from Patrick.’”

Denis smiled again. “Come on boys, we should be getting back to yer mammy. You can tell her about the tea set, Paddy. That will be almost as good.”

They left the store window. Patrick’s shoulders drooped, his arms were limp at his sides. He barely managed a glance at the Town Hall, situated at the head of the quadrangle of the Exchange Buildings.

“We can go and see Nelson first,” Denis added. A slow smile brightened Patrick’s face, and he managed a small skip as he moved towards the Town Hall.

Crossed Paths

Denis Bennett stepped out the door of the Old Fort Tavern onto the cobbles of Bath Street and into the dank air. Dark, dreary air that, with one brushstroke, coloured the Liverpool canvas grey. Denis turned up the collar of his coat against the biting north-east wind that licked the waters of the Mersey into short, sharp waves. A forest of ships’ masts stood above him, piercing the fog as it dispersed above the walls of Prince’s Dock.

Ships, that Denis had hoped he would be unloading that day. He had managed only two days work in the past week, earning seven shillings. It wasn’t enough; a guinea and his family could live in comfort, but work was scarce. That morning, after waiting with the other porters and hoping for a day’s work, he’d been rejected again. How to tell Hannah?

Liverpool Docks

It wasn’t his intention to stay long at the tavern, but Paddy Kelly was there after finishing up at Clarence Dock. Kelly told Denis a grim story of famine refugees; a steamer had spilled out another miserable flood of 250 desperate souls from Dublin.

Tasmania to the Transvaal

The change room at the Western Mine could hardly contain those assembled. With much hand shaking and back slapping, the group of men wished their two colleagues the best of luck – give it to them warm, stay alive and come back to us. There was a call for quiet, moderating the din. Mr Deakin spoke on behalf of the mining company, and collective silence filled the room, interrupted only by the occasional murmur of approval when he voiced the admiration for the volunteers. He then presented a silver pipe to Maurice Keys. And to Victor Peers, a gold medal, a fine piece of local workmanship made by Mr Wathen of Main Street.

The two were members of the Zeehan Rifle Company, part of the Tasmanian Volunteer Rifle Regiment, who responded to the call for infantrymen. Three others from Zeehan were also selected. Australia’s colonial governments sought volunteers to fight for Britain in their war with the Boer Republics. It was 1899,