The Sun Kalgoorlie 22 September 1907, page 6
THE ROARING NINETIES
A BULLA BULLING ROMANCE
SAILOR BILL’S ELOPEMENT
(By Spinifex).
Many of the boys of the old brigade have disappeared. They were a roving lot, and when the share boom collapsed in ’97, and the demand for “properties” had petered out, they booked for various parts of the globe and didn’t ask for return tickets. Some went up to Woodlark Island, off the coast of New Guinea, others struck out across the pond and went into the Klondyke, and others went to the West Coast of Africa, or over to British Guiana, in South America. Scarcely any of them came back to the West, but I reckon if there should be another boom in this State up in the Nor ‘West, you would find some of these gipsies of the mining camps there, just as daring and resourceful as ever.
It is marvellous how few of them settled in London. The only one I can place just now is Sailor Bill, and how he came to anchor in the big metropolis is one of the wonders of human nature, for Bill had a great love of change in more ways than one. He came down from Queensland and to Coolgardie and had with him a dignified old lady who, he said, was Mrs Bill. Now Mrs Bill was supposed to have a bit of boodle, but whether it was her own or Bill’s by proxy, we didn’t know.
Anyway, after he had been knocking around the fields for some months, the desire for change seized Bill by the ear, and made him move to get out. But he was not taking Mrs Bill with him. Although he was as ugly as Ally Sloper, he must have had a devil of a way with the ladies, for he somehow fascinated a young Hebe, who served beer in a popular saloon and induced her to elope with him. She looked sixteen – he looked sixty. He hired a buggy and pair and got an hour’s start on the road to the Cross before the girl’s father and her lover (a mining magnate) discovered the bolt, and started in frenzied pursuit. All the town knew about the affair, and there was much gleeful speculation as to whether the fugitives would be headed off in time to save the girl’s reputation, and whether there would be any shooting.
It was always the way in the Camp — they were always expecting a volley, but none ever happened. There was no doubt about the excitement, and if the “The Golden Age” could only have got progressive wires as to the state of the chase, there would have been a big run on the little afternoon newspaper. However, the father and lover drove up to the Bulla Bulling Hotel at a hand gallop. It was kept by Octavius Palmer in those days, and no one in the entire world would better appreciate an incident in which the eternal feminine was concerned than the said Octavius. He was getting up in years it is true, but he had had considerable experience in the Western District of Victoria, and still had an eye for a pretty face and a good figure — and no blame to him. Oh well, I don’t know to this day and have never been able to find out how it was managed, but when the pursuers pulled up their panting pair, and jumped out with feverish celerity, making breathless inquiries from Palmer, they found that Bill had gone. Somehow, he had discovered that they were on his trail, and probably seeing a vehicle furiously driven coming down the dusty road, he arrived at a hurried conclusion and rushed out into the scrub.
The girl was recaptured in a room, shedding copious tears,
and feeling as disconsolate as any maiden who has taken part in a romantic failure. There was a search of the vicinity for the amorous ancient, but he had evidently taken the precaution of getting as much landscape between him and retributive justice as he could. As he couldn’t be found a sort of Mafia message was pinned to a prominent tree, stating that he would be perforated on sight. After a necessary rest for the horses, the rescue party, with the recovered girl then, started back, and as it was getting towards evening there was quite a crowd to meet them returning. The heroine looked ashamed, but anyone who knows the feminine nature, will not fail to credit her with a little pride at being the central figure in so great an adventure.
It was like living a story in the “Family Herald.” But she was not allowed to gratify this pose but was hurried away to a domestic prison, where she was kept in seclusion until the fame and the shame of it should have subsided. The bar, however, did good business during the following few days, as all the boys wanted sight of the dauntless maiden, who had had the courage to fly with a mummy. It stimulated an interest in the breast of the young bucks and excited a degree of curiosity in the cynical minds of the Methuselahs, and it also provided a prolific topic for conversation and piquant anecdote.
And what became of Sailor Bill in the meantime you may ask?
He had not reappeared and had not been heard of, and there were considerable fears that he had got lost in the bush and perished without having afforded the brooding lover an opportunity of puncturing him with buckshot at least. Several days passed, and there really was some anxiety as to the fate of the ‘Aged Lothario’, when just about midday I saw the old fellow cautiously prospecting Hunt Street, and gradually getting nearer to Bayley Street. While he was thus reconnoitring, he suddenly spied the infuriated lover, who was coming towards him. (unconsciously) from the direction, of the beer saloon in the precincts of which the partner of his flight was safely caged. Bill did not wait to see what sort of mood the offended swain was in, but immediately turned about, and set sail up Church Hill; with his coat flying and a scared look in his eye. He kept up a remarkable pace for an old man and maintained it with astonishing vigour, as his enemy, with, an illuminating cry of recognition, started once more in pursuit. We watched them disappear over the hill and wondered, but nothing happened, and in a few days Bill began to venture once more into the maelstrom of mining and gambling. He fixed up a truce and arranged an indemnity, and so his life was spared.
The actors in this little comedy are all well-known to old campers. Sailor Bill, of course, is hardly a disguise, but the aliases of the others are withheld because they are still in
this land of sin, sand, and sorrow
and have settled down as valuable units in the community. It was not very long after this elopement that Bill struck out for the Klondyke. He had concluded a diplomatic reconciliation with Mrs Bill, but whether it was a permanent peace or not, depended a good deal on Bill. I daresay she kept a close watch on him after that!
Editors Note: There appear to have been three well known men on the WA Goldfields that used the nickname of Sailor Bill. They were differentiated by adding their surname. Our man was Sailor Bill Partridge. There was Sailor Bill Hodge and Sailor Bill Pitman. There will be another story about Sailor Bill’s colourful and adventurous life in the weeks to come.
Family History: William James Partridge was born on the 31st of January 1848 in Mile End, Middlesex, London, England. He was the son of James Partridge and Mary Ann Beasley. He arrived with his family in Australia as a child of 9 years in 1857. Sadly his father died during the journey and his mother also died two years after their arrival in Victoria. On the 24th of December 1878 in Ravenswood Queensland, he married Margaret Bourke. The couple had 6 children who were all born in Queensland, they were William James born 1879 – Charlotte Maria born 1880 – Anne Mary born 1882 – Harry born 1883 – Alice Margaret born 1884 – Catherine Maria born 1890. His wife Margaret died in Qld in 1892.
William remarried on the 25th January 1893 in Queensland to Gertrude Ellen Morrison. It’s not known if they had any children, but she appears to have accompanied him to Western Australia (most likely the Mrs Bill in the above story) without the children from his first marriage. William died on 18 October 1917 in Tucson, Pima County, Arizona, United States of America aged 69yrs and is buried there.
(Ref: “Diggers on the Klondike”, a project researching Australians and New Zealanders who took part in the Klondike Goldrush of 1897-1899 in the Yukon, Canada.)
Moya Sharp
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What a ‘ripping yarn’ ! The mental images of this story are great. Thanks for the great read, Moya.