The Goldfields Pioneers Reuniuon, Perth Town Hall, 23rd December 1929
The Truth – Sunday 29 December 1929, page 1
THE TRAIL OF THE GOLDEN PAST
GENTLEMEN ! To the memory of our comrades who have crossed the Great Divide!
It was a striking and pathetic toast, as pathetic was the response Two hundred grizzled warriors of the West Australian Goldfields rose to their feet. Some vigorously. Some weakly. Two hundred glasses were held aloft. Some steadily. Many shakily. “To dear old Tom” muttered one old fellow in his beard the moisture of the moment’s sentiment added to the moisture of Time. “God keep ‘Im.” In the silence that could be felt, they drained their glasses. Some with a sturdy gulp. Others with the slow trickle that told of the toil of the years through which peeped the rigors of those “balmy” days when the limpid moisture from the condensors was all man had to drink, and a hundred angry eyes threatened to use the pick on the condensors if any corner in the water supply were attempted.
Ah, “them was the days” when the grim struggle with nature for her precious yellow metal was the touchstone to the hearts of men. And looking back, they said, these wonderful old warriors, who gathered for their Great Reunion in the Perth Town Hall, last Monday night, that the test proved that the hearts were even more golden than the metal which men won in thousands. Some to dissipate it quickly and face the struggle for more; some to retire in competence; some to slowly wilt away and finish in the Old Men’s Home. And now for one night, rich and poor, dress-shirted and soft collared, cultured and rough and ready, they were flung together—comrades of memories unforgettable, looking back over the trail of the golden past.
“As dew to the blossom, and bud to the bee, as the scent to the rose are, those memories to me”
It was a night o’ nights! And surely the ghosts of a thousand diggers haunted the old Town Hall that night, to listen in to the subdued boisterousness of these Old Boys of the Never Never, who, living each for himself, had lived for one another and for their country. “I tell you” shouted one old “Digger” who could not be quietened, “that the spirit of the Goldfields was the greatest spirit of all. It made Australia, that spirit. It will make a bigger Australia yet. There’s more gold here yet than has ever been taken out. “Tell the youngsters that! Let ’em hump their blueys and leave the railways, as we did. They will find the “weight” all right. It wants grit. But it’s in the race. So help me God, it is!
Such a host there was last Monday night, all sitting round the tables, like ordinary people at a polite gathering; yet all of them, more or less, able to tell a tale as would fill a book. Just picking them out, haphazard like, was fascinating. You would never dream that all these old warriors of obviously different grades of rank and society, varying degrees of health and wearing age, were all once part and parcel of the common army of bare armed diggers and business dealers whose adventures read now like legends. There, right in the middle of the left table, sits Harry Taylor, with his touch of dark blood and gentlemanly impassiveness. Everybody on the fields knew Harry! He came over with the Durack’s to the Kimberley’s from Queensland, and had previously assisted the late Mr. Darcy Uhr, the well known Overlander. A man of indefatigable resource was old Harry, and as white as white. The best stockman the country has ever known. He discovered Menzies Consolidated and the Woolgar fields. There he sat, on Monday, his grizzled old healthy face shining like the lamps of the evening of a well-spent life, discussing the events of forty and forty-five years ago, as if they were the happenings of yesterday. And ever and anon his gentle laugh; the hoisting of the glass, in response to a distant signal, and a draught of good fellowship.
GOLDFIELDS PIONEERS’ REUNION STIRS OLD MEMORIES AND HEARTS
John Marjury, one of the first on Kimberley. Don Swan, member of the first over-landing party from Queensland to Kimberley. William John Masan, the well-known Yilgarn man. Xiucanas — everybody knows him in the Nor’West. William Sydney Smith, very early in the Kimberley fields, and Coolgardie’s first butcher In the firm of Smith and Moher. Looking, for all the world these men, like modest, recently retired drapers; not a bit like the daring pioneers of history. There, in a prominent position at the second table, was William Edward Routledge, the well-known squatter and racehorse owner, and a pioneer of that famous New Zealand party that made history at Derby. You have not heard the tale? Well, very briefly, it was like this: “Bill,” with a New Zealand party (many New Zealanders came across in the gold rushes, and many of them, poor lads, never returned—typhoid took them) arrived from New Zealand in the specially chartered boat, the Triumph. The harbor dues at Derby were “a new one,” and the New Zealand party considered them an exaction. They refused to pay. The Crown was in a dilemma. Its forces were slight. The New Zealand expedition was adamant. There was a great pow-wow. Something closely approaching a small display of force. But the miners stood their ground. They would not pay, and they would land. Eventually, the Crown decided that discretion was worth more than the dues, and the party landed—without paying the dues.
Further to the right was “Mat” Ford; a great old type of prospector, one of the oldest in the State. And C. H. Counsel, well known throughout the State and regarded as the authorised historian of the Kimberleys. W Lambdon Owen, the old ex-warden, and most popular. Claude L. French, the esteemed Murchisonite; George Spalding, well known at the Southern. Cross and Parker’s Range; and J. H. Plunkett, of Nanine. Widely flung, as time and distance went, those days, but all “cobbers” in evergreen memories and experiences more or less common to all. And could you believe—there sitting almost cheek by jowl was “Paddy” Hughes, who immortalised himself by going to gaol for a month over the Kalgoorlie alluvial hubbub and “Charlie” Moran, the, owner of the lease whose legal ramifications sent the forceful-“Paddy” to gaol. It was a great show down that— and near enough in all truth, to civil war, although all the boys emerged free of bias and as good pals as ever. You could see that from the reception that “Charlie” Moran got when he rose to speak.
One time Minister for Agriculture and Parliamentary representative for Kalgoorlie, they made the applause hit the roof when Charlie rose to speak, immaculate in his dress suit and white shirt front, meticulously trimmed beard, strong curly haired head only slightly streaked with iron grey, and his not un-handsome face still carrying unabated evidences of the strength of mind and will that made him a trusted and beloved comrade on the field, and a feared opponent. “Charlie,” with “Pat” Brennan, had taken up a lease that contained shallow alluvial. The mining laws at that time were as clear as mud. The miners flourished their miner’s rights and claimed the right to take the alluvial on the lease. To mine the alluvial on open ground is one thing; to mine it on another man’s mining lease (and that man, “Charlie” Moran), is another. The clouds grew and thundered. Minister Wittenoom at his wits end to define a law that was no law, made the learned pronouncement that gold within ten feet of the surface was alluvial; and all below ten feet reef. There was nearly a riot. Blood ran hot, “Paddy” Hughes’ especially. However, after “Paddy” had immortalised himself by going to gaol for a month on principle, and the hearts of the miners, being in the right place, had listened to the reasoning of the spirit of the goldfields, the trouble died away, and the spirit of pals prevailed. “Good old Charlie!” they shouted. That was the memory that had endured after all others had faded—the memory of the comradeship that, embittered at times, endured through all and remained the one thing above all others worth remembering. The spirit of the Goldfields: Moran spoke brightly of the days of romance and hardship, loss and triumph. He recalled the epic battle between two young miners for a maiden’s hand. Each lover battered the other to pieces, and the lady, in return, married a man who looked on.
Charlie when visiting Coolgardie, not so Iong ago, met many of the old age pensioners who preferred to linger on amid the scenes and memories they loved so well. He found them very happy, and thanks to the great men who built the famous water scheme – with plenty of beautiful fresh water, and a magnificent climate. “If I were a pensioner,” said Charlie, “I would sooner spend my remaining day there on those beautiful old hills by the railway line than anywhere else in the world.” A hundred pairs of eyes turned to Charlie’s, saw and felt the light that came in his, when he spoke of the beautiful old hills by the railway line. Coolgardie’s hills of memory immortal. The hearts of a whole host of Coolgardieites beat to that note.
Denny Keane! Now, who in the world would identify “Denny” Keane, the well known Osborne Park grazier and dairyman, with the chasing of the elusive weight in the early days of Coolgardie? Yet there you are—there wasn’t .anyone more hungry for the sight of the yellow stuff than the same “Denny” Keane, though, if truth be known, he has found more gold in milk than he found milk in the gold of the balmy days of the rush. Still, “Denny” discovered a lot of the milk of human kindness in those days, and they are treasured memories.
Then “Bob” Buscombe, the ‘Ugly Men’s’ organiser. Who would associate the mild and silently working “Bob” with the “disease” of gold gambling? Yet he was amongst the number, and his card went back to the ninety-three’s, when “Bob” gathered in a lot of the spirit of the Goldfields that serves him well in his present occupation, as a helper of his fellow man. Coolgardie was, of course, more strongly represented than any other field on Monday night. It was “the” field of the West: the magnet that drew the thousands and extracted the millions. “Watty” Knight, well known in the carrying and store keeping days of the field, was there George Bolger, well known in the sporting and racing line, who, with Tom Duff, the president of the association was early on the field. Duncan Braidwood, the well known contractor and ex-councillor of Perth, for years kept the Goldfields Hotel. And B. Summerhayes and Bert Bamblett! Names to juggle with, these in mining history. Not that E. Summerhayes and Bert Bamblett were “diggers,” but they carved, nevertheless, in a unique way, a name in Coolgardie s history. For in those days there was no telegraph to Coolgardie, the nearest telegraph head was at Southern Cross. Quick despatch of news of finds, etc., was important and imperative, and Bamblett and Summerhayes were cyclists in the Goldfields. This Service cycling service supplied runners (cyclists) at short notice—and, of course, at some figure, and wonderful were the records, and remarkable the times, put up by these cyclists in those balmy days when a run of 120 miles on home made tracks was within an ordinary day’s work. Looking at E. Summerhayes and Bert Bamblett on Monday night, one would never imagine that they were the men whose speed dashes made the fields talk, and whose spirit and trustworthiness meant everything to the miners who relied upon the Express.
Then there was “Dick” Heapy, sitting quiet and happy at his table. He was accounted the slickest telegraphist New Zealand possessed, his dispatch of the news of a famous shipwreck off the coast of the Hot Lakes Country constituting a record. The news of the Coolgardie strike lured Dick, like many another New Zealander, to these distant shores, and “Dick” goes down in history as the discoverer of the Ida G. mine. “Joe” Monaghan, unpretentious keeper of the Globe Hotel, sat modestly hiding his light as a former Mayor of Coolgardie. And Tom Hickey, the well known bookmaker and one time jockey, who learned to gamble with life and fortune in the hectic days of the Menzies field, in ninety-four. Side by side sat the clergymen. Canon Collick, a mere stripling from London when he went on the fields, but quickly earning his footing, in the hearts of men, that he has never lost since. And Rev. Tom Allen, the earliest Methodist Minister on the Fields, who with Bishop Glbney and the late Archbishop Riley, were regarded, for all practical purposes, as belonging to one church the Church of Christendom. And S. Shirley Kelly, the first registrar at Coolgardie, who officiated at the first wedding, and like as not, at the first baptism.
Everybody has heard of Weaver and Lock, the South Perth aerated water firm; yet few would guess that both partners were chasers of the elusive weight on Coolgardie’s fields. Still, Jack Weaver and Charlie Lock, were familiar figures of the ninety-five brigade, and the machinery employed in making their waters today plays a very different part to that which made the condensed nectar of the balmy days of ninety-five, which they in common with others, drank, and were merry.
Group of Prospectors in Coolgardie 1895 Sitting Jim Matheson and john Wilberforce Standing left to right H Hill, W Alcock, P Toner, W McLellan, George Martin
All the other fields were represented in Monday’s great gathering—fields whose name will live for ever in West Australian history: Yilgarn, Pilbarra, Murchison, Menzies, Nannine, Southern Cross, Dundas, Cue, Black Flag, Peak Hill, Lake Darlot, Kanowna, Broad Arrow, and, of course, Kalgoorlie. Their pioneering representatives were all present:—
All together a rare old army of veterans—only a few of whom are directly mentioned above. For the greater pleasure of the whole and the certainty of some enduring published record “Truth” publishes hereinafter a complete list of all the veterans who filled in their cards. And—pathetic thought—they represent but a handful of the great army of Pioneers that went hither; some never to return; some to return, in failing health, and linger a while; the whole deserving to be remembered by their country as the vanguard of the civilisation and development that made this country worth while and opened its wonders to the eyes of tho civilised world. Oh memory, thou bitter bitter sweet, both joy and scourge; lulled in countless chambers of those ageing brains, their thoughts are linked by many a hidden chain; awake but one and lo, what myriads rise! Without them history would be a drab and uninteresting thing. They lived, these golden pioneers, and living, made for those who follow a life worth while.
Hats off to the Goldfields pioneers !!
The Roll Call of the Goldfields Pioneers Perth Town Hall 23rd December 1929.
Moya Sharp
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