That day Mount Margaret was as quiet as a cemetery on a Sunday morning in Melbourne.
Andy Flannagan, the ‘Learned Bushman’ and his mates, had reported a strike of alluvial gold 18 miles east, and all the prospectors not on good shows, and had pulled out for the new find, from which Flannagan’s party had brought about 1000 ounces of slugs and specimen stone.
The piece of the settlement would not have been disturbed till nightfall if Martin Conlan, the lone policeman of the camp, had not spotted Jack Maher, one of the new arrivals, and reminded him that he had absconded from Coolgardie lockup three months before. On that occasion, Conlan had arrested Jack after an all-in fight. Martin outed the prospector by kicking him in the ‘commissariats’ in the opening of the eleventh round, and dragged him to the Watch House. His two mates dug in beside of the wall of the cell and the three eloped into the evening.
The constable took the opportunity to tell Jack that he was illegally at large.
“But you got me fowl”, protested the prospector. “I wasn’t ready for what you played on me”. “Are you ready now?” Martin inquired, the defiant reply being in the affirmative. He preceded. “Well, cop this!” this was a left to the unshielded jaw of Maher and Jack went down like a pole axed cow. Andy and Bill MacKay, Maher’s mates, were putting their camels on a bit of a Bush hundred yards away. They saw the unprovoked assault on their partner and came running.
“You dirty cow”, bellowed Flannagan, Jack didn’t have his hands up. “I took care of that” said the constable coolly. “I let him put them up in Coolgardie, and it took me all of an hour to make him drop them.” Flannagan, within striking distance, had recovered his temper. Jack was not hurt anyway and revenge would be sweeter for the keeping.
“Look here, Martin” he said with intense earnestness. We’re three quiet men with 1000 ounces of slugs that we just put in the bank over there. We’ve intentions of staying the night and moving on in the morning to access in the social frivolity of Coolgardie from which we’ve been too long absent. But you’ve called for an alteration in our programme. I’m going to larrup you until you’re begging me to kill you out of your misery. You’ll have a fair go. The boys will be around tonight to witness the exhibition between the law and the prophets.”
“You being the Law and me and my mate standing for the prophets”
After we’re done we’ll give ‘The Maggie’ a good coat of paint. Good enough?
Six men were behind the bar of the Palace Hotel. A hundred were crowded in front and moved in relays to the refreshments. Tom Lawrence put in some fine at two handed work on the ancient piano. Every man who was sufficiently drunk, sang. At about 7 o’clock Sandy Ross carried his bagpipes to the scene of the festival, and walking up and down in front of the hotel entry. This was the way his whiskey always affected him. At about 8 o’clock Sandy’s ‘whisky gauge’ indicated the point at which he always turned on the sacred music. He turned on the appealing music of ‘Nearer My God to Thee’. The hymn had just got to about 75% of singers going, when the cold sober constable appeared at the door in search of fight.
Conlan has shed his uniform coat and was clad in a flannel shirt with riding breeches and canvas shoes. He looked the part of a strong man in condition and effectually ‘wet blanketed’ the entertainment. He was the athletic spectre at the feast, and as he strode through the press, Sandy started another dirge. Flannagan had kept himself sober for the real business of the night. He pushed through and met the constable.
“8 o’clock’ observed Sandy. “I’m here”, was the reply.
“If your ready, then stop this ” a right fist as big as a camels foot shot from nowhere in particular and stopped on the laws chin. Conlan fell on his face, and the acting warden ceremoniously counted to 10. He could have counted 1010. The one hit fight was over, but it had whetted the appetites of the sports men. When Billy Jackson, who had a ring record, expressed himself to the effect that Flannagan had not played fair with the cop, Jack Maher retorted to the effect that Jackson was a liar. The speech provoked a vicious swing but while the punch was en route, Bill McKay, in the interests of his mate, intercepted. The swing missed by Maher connected, and Jackson was now spread out beside Conlan.
Sandy Ross now calmly played ‘The Vesper Hymn’. The flow of music and refreshment then preceded uninterrupted. About 2:00 AM, Mick English, the landlord of the palace, drew the revived Conlan out of the thick of the drinking and told him something. The constable then mounted a whiskey case and called for attention. “I have received information”, he said, that
“Old Harry Peters has been picked up outside. He’s dead!”
“God be good to him!” said Paddy O’Neil piously. He was a decent sort for a protestant. In the defence of religion ‘Broad Arrow’ Bailey dropped him with a bottle. “Old Harry Peters is dead” moaned Flannagan, now maudlin and willing to be mournful about anything. “I didn’t know him, but I’m sorry for any man who leaves this present company, with his will or against it. “I knowed Pete well” said one of the prospectors, and I know he wouldn’t have gone if he could have had his way. ‘Arry’ would go to hell before he’d leave a crowd like with free drinks on tap as well.”
“Let’s wake him up”, suggested one of the assembly. “Tis a good suggestion”, said Flannagan. The dead man was carried inside, placed in a chair and tied so that he would not fall. Then the revel was resumed. For hours the corpse was an honoured guest of the gathering, frequently toasted to immortal memory. He was occasionally reminded that all drinks were for free and he was more than welcome, a filled glass was placed at his elbow.
But even the bravest night must have its end.
Dawn showed a long list of dead marines, a short line of sleeping prospector’s and a few strong men who had drunk themselves sober. Among these were the three outback prospectors who intended pushing on towards the social frivolities of Coolgardie, from which they had been absent for too long. Martin Conlan, the acting warden, the doctor and the manager of the bank were taking a morning ‘eye opener’ with them and as the fluid flowed, Flannagan recollected the dead man inside. “By -*^! he ejaculated, we’ve forgotten the poor devil. He’ll have to be planted and we’re in a hurry to be off. Is there a parson a priest here?” There was not, religion had not yet advanced its outpost so far.
“Well, we’ll have to do the best we can”, said the prospector. “Do you have an axe and a hammer here, Mick?” He asked the landlord. English nodded, and the big fellow continued. “Let two or three of you go and dig a grave under that bit of shade yonder near where our camels are and Mick and me will knock up a coffin from these whiskey cases. It isn’t much we can do for him, but we’ll do what we can.”
In the grey of the breaking day, the grave was dug while other arrangements for the funeral were being made. The coffin was a crudely built casket. The only tools available were an axe, a hammer and a chisel.The nails were taken out of the cases, straightened and re employed. The result of the work of the undertakers was a box almost square and into this ‘Old Man Peters’ was gently pushed and the top of the case nailed down.
An old sulky of which the wheels only were sound, was the hearse. One man taking the place of the horse in the shafts and a team of volunteers pulling on a short length of rope to the burial spot. On arrival, it was found that the grave would not accommodate the square container in which were the remains. The gravediggers were duly cursed! Then the sulky was run down into the bush 50 yards distance away and left on the edge of a breakaway, so that Peters should not be an eyewitness to the necessary enlargements of his tomb. At a nod from Flannagan, Jack Maher stepped into the hole and with sweeping strokes of his pick, tore down the sides from the surface of the excavation. Sinking was easy and he was making rapid progress.
Suddenly, he emitted what could be taken for yelp of pain and leaped out of the hole. Flannagan rushed to him. “What is it he enquired” anxiously? “Have you put the pick though yer foot? “Just what I have done” groaned Mayer throwing an arm across the shoulder of his partner, into his ears he whispered. “Andy, she’s a good hole. I’ve cracked a leader that’s a lousy with gold. You and Bill go and peg it out. I’ll keep on and I’ll rub me ankle and I’ll get back there quick.”
“It is all right”, Andy assured the waiting diggers. “Jacks hurt his foot a bit, and sinking in the bottom is harder. He’ll take it down another foot, let you have a smoke while you’re waiting. He’ll be done in half an hour, or should we all go back and have a mouthful?”
“Take the axe Bill”, he whispered to his mate, and drive our pegs in and get back quick to the bar.” Inside of 20 minutes, Maher joined the drinkers. He placed a hatful of wonderfully rich specimen stones on the bar. “Get out and peg on us, he said. This looks like a good thing.” Inside of five seconds, the bar was empty. Inside an hour, a mile of country, end to end to Dead Mans Finish, bristled with the pegs of the prospectors. During the day, the run on the leader was traced to an outcrop in the scrub 100 yards from the Palace Hotel and the news of the strike filtered through two adjacent camps and on to Coolgardie which brought about by the big rush to ‘The Margaret’.
Under the title of ‘Peters’ Reward Mines, on the site of the intended grave of the prospector Old Harry Peters, was floated for £120,000. Old Man Peters was forgotten in these first days of the excitement of the rush, and when he was remembered his remains could not be found. It was considered likely that the sulky, left on the edge of the breakaway, had rolled accidentally over the edge and been wrecked.
But no one was very interested, so the prospectors let it go at that!
When Fortune Smiled and Other Tales of the Goldfields
by John Drayton. Prepared by Peter J Bridge, Angela Teague and Rina Ashcroft
$30.00 + Post Available from Hesperian Press
Contains 65 WA true tales of the goldfields, such as, The rush to Cow Camel, When thieves fall out, Rifles and axes for two, The lost show at Gregory Hills, Skull Creeks bloody baptism, and The patch at Double Cross.
Moya Sharp
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Great story.
Great story telling…