The Fight for the Ida H:

THE FIGHT FOR IDA H

Who discovered the Ida H gold mine, twenty miles from Mount Margaret, in the State of West Australia? Who got the half-million sterling extracted from it? Whence was its name derived? Ask those questions of old Dick (Richard) Heaphy and you touch as pretty a story of comradeship, romance, luck, and optimism as ever was told of the goldfields that have made rich men of beggars and beggars of rich.

Seventy-eight years of age was Dick Heaphy in November of 1929. He has been troubled with his feet of late, but medical skill is improving them, and this veteran of many fields and one time part owner of one of the richest, is actually premeditating going back to the fields, to “lookup” a few spots he has had in the back of his mind all these years.  A simple man is Dick Heaphy, who tells a tale in a simple unvarnished tongue. What dauntless spirit beckons this aged frame, making it see pictures of another El Dorado rising from the golden ashes of the first? But fortune seldom smiles upon one of her children twice in a lifetime and Dick Heaphy is over young to be finding another Ida H! Still you never can tell!

Dick is New Zealand-born, first blinking his eyes in the Port of Lyttelton, in 1851. He commenced his career in the New Zealand Post office, and it is said of him that he developed into the fastest telegraphist in the Cold Country.
It was in Greymouth, on the West Coast, that Dick met and developed a lasting friendship with Lucien Henry, a Londoner of French descent who was employed as a clerk in a butcher’s shop. The butcher was a man of substance, and when the impetuous Lucien, in the ardent manner of the race from which he sprang, paid court to the butcher’s daughter, the butcher sacked him. That this clerk should have the presumption to aspire to marry his daughter, was more than the butcher could tolerate, and lest his daughter, in the foolish way of young women, should fail to correctly estimate the gravity of such a social crime, he banished Lucien from sight, and, of necessity, from the district, since butchers and jobs were few in Greymouth. Swearing eternal friendship, Lucien and Dick parted, and years passed before they met again. Dick was sitting in a restaurant in Princess Street, Dunedin (to which city his postal services had been transferred) when in walked a picture of shabby gentility. A few whispered words between the shabby one and the keeper convinced Dick that the stranger was arranging for a meal & accommodation.

After a moment’s hesitation, he conducted the stranger to a table close to Dick, and the eyes of the two met. “Dick!” “Lucien!” The pals fell on each other’s neck, the owner watching with interest, the demonstrations of affection more natural to his race than to the Scotch people amongst whom he had settled, and he obeyed with alacrity the generous orders that Dick flung at him. “Well,” said Dick, patting his friend affectionately on the arm, when all the troubles had been told, “your worries are all now over. What’s mine is yours, Lucien.” The Frenchman’s eyes were moist as he pressed the hand extended. What a thing is true friendship! His love for his Emily, the butcher’s daughter, was still the passion of Lucien’s life, and he listened eagerly for any additional scraps of information that Dick could pass to him, and Dick, being a true friend, expatiated on her growing charms, her obvious treasuring of the memory of her Lucien, whereat Lucien blushed, laughed and was happy, and declared (with an excellent meal to fortify an earlier empty stomach) that he felt a new man and would face anything.

Dick was as good as his word. He mentioned the case of Lucien to the Chief Postmaster in Dunedin, who had a brother who was head of the Otago Railways, expatiating upon Lucien’s many virtues, his experience in the English railways, and suggested that his friend would be a welcome addition to the Postmaster’s brother’s railway staff. So useful and so powerful is the influence of a word spoken into the right ear, at the right moment, that Lucien was very soon installed as a clerk in the railways, where, working with tremendous enthusiasm, he transformed the branch of which he was a member, quickly took charge, and in a few months was promoted from post to post into the position of auditor, a position carrying an imposing measure of affluence and dignity. With those added advantages, looking every inch his part, Lucien again pressed his romanceful suit in the Greymouth butcher’s camp, and the butcher, being a man of material wisdom, capitulated, and one bright morning the wedding bells of the little church proclaimed the triumphant truth, that love (and position in life) will win out and that Lucien and Emily were one.

All of which might seem, at first glance, to be remote from the issue of the Ida H. gold mine in Western Australia. Still, since it all bore an interesting relation to the naming of the famous “find”, it is necessary to the correct delineation of West Australian history to recount these doings of persons who had no association with West Australia at all who, in fact never saw it and had no direct interest whatever in the Ida H mine. So! To Lucien and Emily Henry was a daughter born. They christened her Ida. By this time, the Henry’s had left New Zealand and settled in Sydney. By this time also, Dick Heaphy had migrated, and the friendship cemented in youth between Dick and Lucien, was not terminated as so many similar friendships are.

So Dick and Lucien continued to correspond, and little Ida, as she grew up to school age and learned to write, would often, in the manner of children, engross a little note, to be enclosed in Daddy’s letter to Dick. Dick, meantime, had developed the gold fever and was located at Coolgardie, whence he occasionally wrote to his friends the Henrys in Sydney, telling them of the surprising scarcity of gold and his abiding hope that he would yet discover his mine.

“If you do find that mine,” wrote little Ida Henry, in one of her little girlish enclosures, “please call it after me, Uncle Dick.” And on the day of his tremendous luck, Dick was hastening into Mount Margaret with his application for the lease and turning over possible names in his mind, had almost determined upon one of the two Maori names, when the memory of little Ida Henry’s girlish request flashed upon his mind. “Ida Henry” it shall he, he decided. Then, not altogether liking the surname for a mine, he decided,

“Ida H.” would be better. And Ida H it became!

Through such obscure and almost untraceable channels does history evolve! If old Dick Heaphy had passed away without being pressed for these reminiscences, it is probable that the nomenclature of the famous mine would, in years to come, have formed the subject a controversy with the public leaning to the belief that the name was obviously associated with Heaphv’s own family connections since Ida “H” would stand for Heaphy as well as for the unknown “Henry.” Now we all know, and there will be no need to argue about it in the future. Unauthentic history credits Richard Heaphy with being the discoverer of the Ida H. mine. If that had been true it would have saved Dick a lot of litigation. Dick was the first legal owner of the mine, and thereby hangs a tale.

COOLGARDIE Post Office – It was in March I894, that Dick introduced himself to Coolgardie with the intention of becoming wealthy very quickly. But for every man who found nuggets as big as hen’s eggs, there were thousands who dry-blowed for nuggets the size of sand grit, Dick was one of these. The Coolgardie Post Office could hardly be described as up-to-date in those days. They had no alphabetical system of sorting out letters, and Dick, with his years of experience in the more up-to-date Post Offices of New Zealand, used to stand, amazed and amused, watching the distribution of the twice-a-week mail. When the mail arrived the miners, to the number, perhaps, of 3,500, would gather in front of the Post Office. The four or five postal officials, mostly young fellows, would grab the mail and divide it between them. A letter, taken in any sort of turn, as it emerged from the mail, would be held aloft and the name, say, “George Hannigan” shouted over the heads of the crowd. Somewhere in the background, a stentorian voice would yell  “He-ah!” The letter would be passed to the nearest man, and hand by hand through the miners to the recipient. If anything happened to it in transit over the heads of the crowd that was not the affair of the P.O. It was out of the hands of the department.

Dick Heaphy – Photo SLWA

But the exasperating feature about it all was that when “George Hannigan” got his letter, he did not necessarily get his mail, because deep in the bags there might be half a dozen more letters for him. So the whole of the 1,500 miners foregathered would have to wait outside, during the whole of the period of the distribution, to make sure that they got the whole of their mail, and if the mail was a decent sized one, they would all have to return the next day, since the officers closed down the mail distribution when they got tired, and like a returning officer at a poll, announced, as it were, the end of the count for the night. It occurred to Dick that he might perform a useful service to his adopted country, and assist himself over a lean period, by offering his services to the Coolgardie P.O. He did so, and on the strength of his credentials, was promptly appointed, at a salary of £120 a year. Dick demanded £150 a year and got it.

A LITTLE KNOWLEDGE – Then he started to work on that mail. He persuaded the officer-in-charge to build him one sorting box, by way of experiment and sorting into this all the letters from A to F, and these in turn in further divisions, Ba-Bf,  etc,. As fortune chanced, the Chief Postmaster was present on the day of the experiment and watched the distribution of the letters A to F under Dick’s control, and the distribution of the mail under the old system. In, three-quarters of an hour Dick was finished. Hours later the distributors of the first-letter-first-served principle were still going strong. The Chief Postmaster ordered the immediate adoption of Dick’s system throughout. At the end of 12 months, Dick decided that he had not come all the way to dusty Coolgardie to spend his life as a postal official, and tendered his resignation. The P.O. refused to accept it, charging Dick, in, effect, with having made use of the institution to serve his own ends—to stave himself over a lean period. The position was so embarrassing that Dick persuaded an accommodating medico to give him a certificate of ill health, and. armed with this moral document, he laid up long enough to induce the P.O. to tell him to go to a ‘hot place’.

Coolgardie’s Mail Distribution.—Each letter, as it emerged from the bag – regardless of alphabetical order, was held aloft and one (or more) of the 1,500 miners would claim it with a shout.

So Dick finds it difficult to determine the exact truth, whether he resigned or was dismissed from the postal service of Western Australia. Dick Fagan, sold out the Commercial Hotel, Kalgoorlie, to Pat Brennan, Dick Heaphy took over the managership for a year. Then the urge to fulfill the mission that brought him to the fields sent him back to the dusty job of dry-blowing. With a cobber named Harrison, he “blu eyed” his way to Gill Valley, thence to Eucalyptus, where they made a bit of a rise, alluvial, panning out £100 each in a month. With their enthusiasm whetted by this little successful contact with the elusive weight, Dick went successively to various fields around Menzies and Mount Margaret finally concluding that brains (finance) and brawn made the best combination.

With this conclusion, he took a job as an accountant on the Craigiemore Mine, and entered into a prospecting partnership with two others, Dick, from his earnings, supplied the tucker, etc, the other two the toil and search, the partnership agreement providing that Dick should take half of whatever was discovered the other two a quarter each. So organised, it was not long before Pollard and his mate made a find and inspecting it, Dick decided that it was good and to take out a lease. He insisted—wisely, as subsequent events proved—upon taking out the lease in his own name, giving his two partners written acknowledgments of their quarter share in the property. Then to Mount Margaret, he hastened, en route deciding upon the name of “Ida H.”cxdss

To test out the find as early as possible was important, and as his two partners were having a little corroboree in town. Dick put on two paid hands, who took out fifty tons by way of a test. The stuff worked out at three ounces to the ton,
The Ida H was famous. Then the trouble began. It was claimed by two Mt. Margaret publicans that Pollard, when prospecting, was working for them, and they opposed Dick’s application for the lease. Then and there was staged the greatest and most interesting mining scrap in Mount Margaret’s history. Dick’s accountancy training had induced him to take the precaution of putting everything in writing. He had writing to show the partnership, writing to show that Pollard and his mate had been working for him; writing to show that he financed the party; writing to show, indisputably that he (Richard Heaphy) and no other was entitled to the legal ownership of the Ida H. Before Dick, however, had time to move, figuratively speaking, the legal market had been cornered. The opposition had not only engaged the only possible legal talent but had absorbed the available legal talent at Menzies. Dick was left to be his own lawyer, and never doubting the validity of his claim, and unmindful of the old adage “He who is his own lawyer, has a fool for a client,” he went to Mt. Margaret court to fight out the Issue.

To his astonishment his case, although set down for hearing, was not called up. Puzzled, he waited and waited, until at the conclusion of the day’s sitting, the Constable arose and announced, “The Court is now closed.” Dick’s fighting blood was up. The constable’s words were barely out of his mouth when the small frame of Dick shot upright and he shouted, “The Court is not closed! I demand that my application be determined according to notice.” There was a mild hubbub, during which the Warden explained that the case had been merely adjourned for a month. Believing that the case had been merely adjourned to allow his opponents to scrape up evidence, and having himself had no notice of the adjournment, Dick insisted that the adjournment was not according to mining law. “I insist, Mr. Warden, that my application go on.” Dick could be very persistent and at length, the Warden tired. “Sit down”, he commanded, “I will not listen to you.

Dick saw that it was no use combating the law itself. Pale and angry, he left the court, calling to the “Warden: “Very well, you will listen to me next time. “Straightaway Dick took steps to enforce his threats. The only disengaged available mining lawyer of note was ‘Lawyer W H Jones’ of Kalgoorlie, a noted mining authority, but an expensive one. To him, as quick as transport would carry him, Dick put the facts of his case. Lawyer Jones agreed to fight for him, but he wanted £30 a day and travelling expenses. “You shall have it,” said Dick, and the deal was made. Dick’s blood was hot. If Jones had asked £50 a day Dick would have found it. Further ore from the mine had been crushed in the meantime, and all Mount Margaret was excited at the richness of the property.

THE PROMISED LAND – To have realised his life’s ambition in the discovery of this great prospect, and then to have it snatched from him, was a maddening thought. Dick counted every hour to the day which would make or break his heart. ‘It came at last—the day’. All Mt Margaret was there, and from miles, the miners rode and drove into town to hear the fight for the property thereabouts. No less than three lawyers did the opposition have, including the celebrated Mr. Canning (subsequently a Police Magistrate): a man perhaps better known for his standing in general law than for his standing in mining law in particular. In Jones, Dick had the undisputed legal mining authority of the time. All the day the case went on, and into the night when the kerosene lamps cast their shadows on the walls.

It finished at last.

Came the tense moment for the decision. Every eye was fixed on the Warden. Dick, knowing that the decision would either make him or break him—his legal expenses were at least £200— listened with a beating heart. The Warden looked towards Dick. He looked towards, the opposition, and announced quietly, “I reserve my decision until tomorrow morning.” Experienced lawyers develop an uncanny sense of anticipating legal decisions. and in reserving of the decision deceived none of the legal scrappers. Turning to Dick, Lawyer Jones whispered: “You’ve got it ! They’ll come at you now for an interest. Have nothing to do with them”. So speaking, Lawyer Jones left the court and walked straight to his hotel. Sure enough, Dick was barely out of the court, when one of the opposition’s lawyers, who had been earnestly confabbing with the others accosted him and suggested the wisdom of a compromise. “You know,” he said seriously, “you are going to lose this case.” Dick tried to look pained. Adopting an air of resignation, he intimated that nevertheless, he would have nothing to do with the compromise suggestion. “You can go and see my lawyer,” he said. They did not go and see Dick’s lawyer. They knew Lawyer Jones,
THE DECISION –  All Mount Margaret turned up again to the court next morning to hear the Warden’s decision. The miners were mostly sports, inured to gambling, and prepared to give the winner a cheer, no matter what way the decision went.

Their great cheer heralded Dick’s victory, followed of course, by the unanimous demand for a shout. Something in his make-up, Dick (knowing that one of his publican opponents, esteemed himself a sprinter, and deeming himself no fool at the game) offered to race him 50 yards for the honor of the shout. Whoever lost should shout. It was a sporting offer, sportingly received. The 50 yards course was laid out. The local newspaper genius, Hamlet Johnston, was appointed referee. The miners crowded the impromptu course. The recent legal contestants stripped and toed the line. With breathless suspense, the crowded line watched.  Hamlet Johnston, losing nothing of the importance of the occasion, proceeded to his task with deliberation. He was making the story spin out. “Ready!” Dick crouched. The publican did similarly. “Go” shouted the literary man, and with a bound, the contestants for the honor (or avoidance of the honor) of shouting drinks for the entire population of Mount Margaret, dashed for the distant rope. Neck by neck they raced. Dick always had, the impression that he won by a foot or two, but the carefully compromising judgment of Hamlet was not to be challenged nor set aside.

“A dead heat,” he announced!

A silence fell on the crowd. It was confusing. “Race again,” yelled one section. “Share,” shouted another. “Both shout,” yelled inspired barracker, whose genius was uproariously acclaimed. Dick rose to the occasion. “Alright”, he said “I’ll shout for the crowd down at Keeley’s (the publican who had no part in the legal proceedings) and you, (he added turning to his opponent) can shout the crowd at your own pub. “A deal,” shouted the delighted crowd and the publican, although deprived of the profits of Dick’s shout met the occasion with sporting resignation, and that night all Mount Margaret was drunk.

EASY COME, EASY GO – Who made the half million out of the mine? Well, not Dick Heaphy, though he made a rise that would make any a man’s mouth water. He sold out to Richard Hamilton, of Boulder, Barnicott and Augusta fame, for £8,000 cash, and one-fifth of the (50,000) shares of the Ida H. flotation, and out his half-share of this, he realised £15,000.

Spent it? Every penny! “Easy come, easy go,”

and Dick was no different from the men of his time when a hundred sovereigns would be wagered on the toss of a penny, and money was made to go round. “There’s lots more where this came from” was the slogan of the day. Dick had a great and glorious holiday, putting up at the best hotels in the East—and sportive soul—had his plunges on the gee-gees. Still, Dick is not grieving. These days, when the money spent could bring so many comforts, Dick has a quiet kick at himself occasionally, but on the whole, he gets through life with a smile. And, bless your soul, when the doctor gets Dick’s feet right again, he is going back he says, to the fields to look up a few spots where he picked up prospects, and which he knows have never been exploited since. At seventy-eight he is prepared to trench again. A little prospecting on familiar ground, a little trenching, and who knows? Call it an old man’s- dream if you like. But you never can tell!

Such stuff those old pioneers were made of, blended with the spirit that will not die, in life.

Heaphy’s Find – Ida H