Alls Well that Ends Well –

In 1893, the Murchison goldfield teemed with all sorts and conditions of men. A rugged band of prospectors had pitched camp by a rocky pool on the western flank of the Cuddingwarra Ranges—then known as the Dead Finish—some ten miles west of Cue. As I recall those days, fond memories surface of the characters who gathered around the campfire after the day’s toil. In my mind’s eye, I see them still: Captain Harry Hay of the Royal Navy, who, just months before, had commanded H.M.C. Childers in Sydney Harbour; Dick Seetin, a solicitor and New South Wales’ and champion amateur boxer; and Jim Officer, once a bank manager in Collingwood, Victoria, and brother to Dr. Officer of Perth. Jim later served as Mining Registrar at the Warden’s Court in Cue for many years.

Inspired, we grabbed our dishes and scoured the area for days, but not one of us turned up even a hint of color. Reluctantly, we concluded that the 17-ounce nugget was a lone orphan, with no kin to be found. Like most of us, Mr. Amphlett had little mining experience, so he hired three seasoned miners to sink a shaft on his lease, which he’d dubbed the West Australia. Just shy of the water level, a robust quartz vein appeared in the shaft, and a northward drive began. They tunneled a good distance, stockpiling the stone in a paddock. Regular sampling showed traces of gold, but the high costs of crushing and carting deemed it unprofitable.

A Turn of Fortune

One Monday morning, before the miners descended, Mr. Amphlett and Dick Austin strolled to the shaft. “Well, boys,” Amphlett announced, “I rode into Cue yesterday for my mail, my bankers, Messrs. McMeekan and Blackwood—a big shipping firm in Melbourne—sent word to halt work on the lease. I’m grateful for your hard efforts and sorry, for your sakes and my backers’, that we haven’t struck it rich. If you hear of work next week, take it; if not, rest easy.” Paddy Mingham, one of the miners, piped up, “Boss, I’d like to put a shot down where Robinson found that nugget.” “Do whatever you damn well please, Paddy,” Amphlett replied, and he and Austin returned to camp.

Paddy gathered drills and explosives, sank a three-foot hole, and fired it. After a quick peek, he dashed to his tent, grabbed a prospecting dish, and filled it with specimen stone. Racing to Amphlett’s camp, he thrust it forward, exclaiming, “Look at this, boss!” Amphlett’s eyes lit up. “By Gad, Paddy, that’s splendid!” he cried. Alec Wilson drove him into Cue, where the stone was secured in the bank. Amphlett wired his bankers.

“Fired out this morning, brought over 20 oz. gold into bank; plenty more in the face. Advise continuing operations.”The reply was swift: “Congratulations. Carry on by all means.”

The vein was traced through the drive. A 50-ton crushing at the Victory United battery yielded 309 ounces over the plates—over six ounces per ton. The gold fetched £4/2/6 per ounce at the Mint, the top price then. Charlie Mathews, the feeder, split a boulder to reveal over 10 ounces of solid gold inside—a specimen Amphlett later took to England when the lease was sold.

A Missed Opportunity and a Happy Ending

While the battery hummed, Harold Martin, the local storekeeper, approached me with a handkerchief of mullock. “Jim, when you’ve got a moment, will you pan this for me?” he asked. “Sit down,” I said, “I’ll do it now.” The result stunned me—a brilliant tail of fine gold. “Where the devil did you get this, Harold?” I demanded. “Have a look!” He explained, “I picked it up on a flat north of the West Australia. Someone must’ve sunk a pothole after finding a specimen. I reckon it’s a lode formation—could be valuable if it’s wide enough.”

“I’ll grab some pegs and help you stake it,” I offered. Harold hesitated. “I’m torn, Jim. My mate George Morrison’s been prospecting east of Mt. Sir Samuel with a party. They took six months’ supplies and have been gone five. He could return any day, and if they’ve struck something, I might need the cash to join them.” “Fair enough,” I said. “That hole’s been there a while—likely no one’s rushing to claim it. Wait for George.”

A week later, Harold returned, crestfallen. “What do you think, Jim? Paddy Mingham’s pegged two leases, including that pothole.” I went to Paddy, who greeted me with his usual grin. “Just in time, Jim—the billy’s boiling. It’s the strongest brew I’ve got. Had a bottle a few days back, but forgot the cork—bad luck!” “Harold Martin’s upset,” I said. “He claims you’ve pegged his spot for a camel station.” Paddy chuckled. “Here’s the story, Jim. The boss wanted to do me a favor. A London syndicate offered him a fortune for the West, but they wanted more land. He shifted out and tipped me to peg a couple of block claims while he showed them around. I’ll make a few pounds off it.”

And he did—£1,000 in less than a week. Amphlett pocketed £10,000 for the West Australia. George Morrison returned empty-handed, his party luckless. Harold sold his store and teamed up with George at Lake Austin’s Island, where they struck it rich on the Orient lease.

So, as they say, all’s well that ends well!

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