FLIGHT

 Once again, New York faded into the distance. Governor's Island looked insignificant under a bright blue sky, but for Ira it symbolised the worst of the life he was leaving. Even from shipboard he could see the tiny bustle of activity, the glint of gunmetal and the flash of steel. Already the din and noise of the city had been subsumed by the slap of the waves, the hum of hawsers and the throb of mighty engines. Every face was turned  back and he took the opportunity to study them. A couple he found very appealing. In fact, one was so appealing that he found himself riveted, staring. She was obviously married, and was accompanied by two beautiful children, a girl and a boy. It was Margaret Dickson, the violinist. He cursed his luck. Although he had paid for a good berth, he  would have to avoid the first-class passengers. She was soon joined by a tall man, presumably her husband. Ira did not care much for the look of him. She was in the full bloom of womanhood, and they made a pretty picture indeed. A pity about the husband though, he found himself thinking again.

      He looked around further, this time with his hat a little lower, a look he had planned to avoid. He was checking to see if there were any others who might be in his position. He spied a couple of candidates and made a note to avoid association. He would have like to write, but did not want to leave any clue on paper.

       The first couple of days were tedious but bearable, and he passed a good deal of time  reading and playing cards. He sat in sheltered spots on deck, thinking of nothing at all for vast stretches of time, watching the eternal sea sliding past, in every shade of gray, green and blue imaginable. Storms, squalls and hail were merely the backdrop to the drama which flared up in his mind. With each league covered, he knew himself to be further and further from home, and the thoughts he had been trying to suppress came crowding in upon him, in the middle of the night, as his companions snored, as some poor fellow retched, as the ship chopped and rose, staggered and slewed. He saw again the garden round the old house, in the late Spring, bursting with color and heavy with fragrance. He wrapped himself in the blanket of silence that came with the first snows, and heard the gurgling of the river as the snow melted. He saw his family, innocent and hard-working, with their many children barely aware of war's shadow. When would he return? When would he see them again? What would they think of him? And then he would somehow fall asleep.

  What had he forgotten, he sometimes wondered, mid-Atlantic. Perched on a wind-sheltered beam on deck, he huddled in his great-coat, pondering the future and the past. He checked the bag at his feet, and there, comforting to hold and to touch, was Madonna. He ran his fingers over the grain of the wood and let his mind go blank. Soon he saw again his father's enigmatic companion-piece, and immediately he remembered – he hadn't ever checked the other items in the little collection bequeathed by Sylvanus. When would he ever have the chance to learn what the boys had brought from Europe? And where they might have come from? Was it important? He couldn't have said, but he wanted to know – just really, really wanted to know. Asahel would be the key, but when would he ever be able to talk to him again?    

   A squall that hit in the night brought bitter cold but was brief. The following day was idyllic, with a gentle following breeze, and up on deck, eyes closed, he soaked up the sun like an old cat. A cloud seemed to  pass across the sun for he sensed the shade and felt his face cool. He opened his eyes to find a figure silhouetted against the sun. He blinked to focus against the glare. A voice from the past said “A penny for your thoughts Ira.”

      Ira struggled to stand, but before he could do so, Margaret had seated herself beside him.

      “You've been avoiding me.”

      Ira knew she wasn't used to that, and smiled.

      “That's better, she said. You look positively thunderous. What on earth  are you thinking about all the time?”

      What the hell, he thought. It was a relief to be able to talk, and Margaret was a good listener, and sympathetic. Half-way through, though, he remembered that she was the daughter of an officer. She was amused. “Oh, Pa's not a real soldier – he does his duty, just like you – as long as he has his books and his family.”

      He wasn't sure how to take this, but tried to be graceful. He noticed that their conversation had already drawn some attention, and mentioned it.

       “Well, you'll be better off talking to us if you want to allay suspicion, instead of skulking about scowling and glowering.”

      Surely he hadn't been that obvious, but then again, she was probably right. She anticipated his next question.

 “Oh, he won't mind – he meets all sorts of people.” Again Ira was not sure how to take this. “There are times when you don't ask too many questions Ira.”

      Not too far away hovered the husband and two children. They came running up, eager to be introduced. The girl, Adelaide, was very pretty and graceful, and was in constant movement, dancing and miming, rearranging her costume and attempting to supervise her younger brother, Dominic. He too, had his mother's looks, but had an abstracted look about him as he examined every mechanical item available to him. He wished to know how everything worked, and had to be dissuaded from testing various knots, locks and latches. From here on, Ira had something to do, and he was happy to help entertain the children, reading them stories, teaching them cards and singing silly songs. The journey now passed swiftly for which he was both grateful and regretful. Despite his misgivings, her husband seemed a decent enough sort of fellow he admitted to himself. “Adelaide” seemed an English enough name, but “Dominic”? He'd known an Irishman by the name, but also a couple of French and an Italian. His association with the family had been  welcome testimony to his respectability.

      Margaret was travelling to London, to visit relatives, attend concerts and other sundry matters it seemed. He ruefully saw them off at Liverpool, while he awaited the preparation of The Great Victoria, bound for the Colony of Victoria. Liverpool was everything Ira had expected – large and busy, and if he thought New York was full of Irish, he was astounded by their numbers here.  Could there be any left at all in Ireland? And just how miserable must be that suffering country for its people to be so desperate?  He presumed that his new ship, The Great Victoria, would also carry its quota of Irish to the Great South Land, Australia. And so it proved.

  The bulk of the passenger contingent was, however, English, with a smattering of regional accents, also some Scottish and Welsh. Spirits were mixed on the quay, and the feeling was different from that on the New York sailing. This time, there was an air of finality hanging over the ship. Many of the passengers suspected they might never return. Hoping for the best, they also feared the worst. Some lads larked on the deck, one throwing overboard another’s cap. In a show of bravado the owner

plunged in to retrieve it, drawing frowns from some and praise from others, particularly those who were disposed to find brave omens and promising signs at the outset of their voyage.

And in among the English was one Frank Williams, labourer, 27 years of age, pleasant enough looking, but not overly inclined to speak at any length. In fact, Ira was trying to adapt to his new name, and to find the accent with which he was most comfortable. Some of the educated Irish and some of the South Western English were the ones most congenial to his native accent, and he decided to contrive a peripatetic childhood as the son of a journeyman cooper. Much linguistic oddity could be forgiven such a child. Again he searched the faces aboard in case there were any surprises, pleasant or otherwise. There were none, for which he was grateful.

      Ira was glad to be heading once more for warmer climes, and his spirits lifted with the mists and fogs. There was a good amount of entertainment aboard, and Ira threw himself into the activities which were not too banal. The company was generally pleasant though he shuddered to think how some of them would cope with what he expected to find. Surely some of the horrors of early America would be encountered in Australia. Many of the travellers seemed confident, even cocky. They seemed to be sure they knew a lot.

       “They'll be pleased to have us; they need to improve the stock. Someone has to run the show, and you can't get anywhere with the descendants of convicts. With our skills and standards, we'll be set up in no time.”

      Some really did seem to know a lot about the place, and Ira listened carefully. He was bound for Melbourne, which seemed to be thriving on gold – but he was wary.

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FRANK WILLIAMS IN MELBOURNE

Others were not bound for Melbourne at all, but were making their way to a younger colony still, Queensland.

  “You see, Frank, we are not going toVictoria. It's a rough place full of uncouth miners – oh, there are all sorts there, Americans, Chinese, anything you can think of. Oh no, we are starting up in a beautiful new colony, it's called Queensland, after the Queen of course, and it will be the new thing, for certain. We will have a wonderful new world there Ira, why don't you come too? There will be a mixture of races who will work in harmony – the Anglo-Saxon and the Celt will walk together into the future.” Ira envied the speaker his encompassed world, but not his ultimate disillusionment.

      “How will you live though?” he asked.

      “Ah – thought of that – the Queensland Government is so keen to acquire people like us that they will pay for us to plant cotton and maize.”

      “Do you know about cotton and maize then?”

      “Can't be too much to know – we'll master it quickly anyway, but it's guaranteed.”

      “Well, that's all right then isn't it?” Ira filed the knowledge away, such as it was, for possible further use.        

      Melbourne was a surprise. A large harbor led to the mouth of the Yarra River, with the city situated a few miles upstream. It was large, rambling and busy. It had long surpassed the size of Bagdad in Mexico, but the same haste was evident. Although the gold fever was much abated, the place was coming to terms, first with the exodus of its population to provincial parts, and second, their empty-handed return. Already some of the miners, including Americans from the California diggings, had departed for fresh fields in other states and countries. No-one commented on his accent or showed the slightest interest, but he was still wary.

       His hotel in Queen Street was a decent place, and the proprietress was pleasant enough. “New chum are ye?”

       “Just arrived. And happy to be on land.”

       “I know that feelin, dear, xceptin I couldn't call meself happy, havin lost me darlin chile at sea. Tragic it was, and poor little Eddie layin at the bottom o'that great ocean, with all them sharks an fishes. It was years ago dear, but it still seems like yesterdy – I been blest with two more, but y'never forget, y'never forget” she intoned.

       Ira looked round, and considered what a fine land it was that gave such an unprepossessing woman such a chance. The hotel was small but tasteful and stout and gave every appearance of a thriving business. Not at all loth to talk she happily answered his many questions.

       “Ah no love, when the gold come, they were off. You shoulda seen them jump in anythin' that moved. They bought up all the shovels and picks and nets – oh you wouldn't credit what they took. My bloke made a packet – that's when we bought this place, and a right gold-mine it is too – look at you people, you gotta stay somewhere, you're tired and here we are, near the ships. I reckon we chose well, we did.  An o'course, they're off to the next diggins, then a new lot comes in – you're not off to the gold are y'sir?” she went on, changing tack. And, not waiting for an answer, “Now you look like a working man sir, and you look kind of edjicated too, so what am I t'make of ye?” And she chuckled deeply, giving Ira a chance to compose his answer. “Now, Frank Williams” she said, “that's kinda ordinary. I was expectin something fancy, just a bit, you know, special like.”

      “I could make something up for you.”

      And she chuckled again. “No, no no” she mused “it's a nice voice y've got, n I'm jus trying t'think where I've heard your accent before.”

      Just then, the door behind her swung open, and a tall, lean man with an enormous drooping moustache came in carrying an armful of bottles, a local ale from the look of it. He spoke, in a pleasant, twanging drawl.

       “He'll be one of those Americans I'd say, from the sound of him.”

       Ira was seized by a momentary panic, but need not have worried, for the fellow obviously could not have cared less whether he came from the Vatican, Buckingham Palace or Hades.

       Ira fancied he could almost hear his own words so powerful was the thought “Well, I suppose that's just why I came here.”  

      That there was work to be had, Ira had little doubt, but judicious inquiry and keen observation told him that although some of the major building works were proceeding at an impressive pace, there were many projects which seemed to have run out of puff, or money, as they seemed to have been frozen at a certain point in their construction. The city was quite handsome, and well laid-out, with broad streets and impressive buildings by way of Churches, banks and business houses. The docks were busy, the streets teemed with traffic and people looked well-fed and mostly well-dressed. Of the native inhabitants there were few signs. It didn't feel too different from his home state.

       He walked across the bridge to the south bank of the river, where he found tents and a thriving camp. He couldn't help but be interested, to see  men of his own age soldiering. It was a pleasant contrast indeed to the his last camp. What a good posting this would be. The weather was balmy in early Summer and the strange birds of the Antipodes swarmed through the trees with their cheerful, raucous calls. The ancient eucalypts had given way to European intruders, particularly oaks, elms and planes, all of which thrived. There was no major threat from the aborigines, and there was no foreign land or culture on the doorstep.

      “Oo ya lookin for then?” came from a relaxed sentry.

       “I don't know anyone here.”

      The sentry cast an eye over Ira.

  “Where are your mates then?”

      “A long ways.” Ira cast an eye over the sentry. He saw a pleasant young man, smooth-faced and pink, with little sign of hardship or battle. His uniform and equipment were new and in fine condition.

      “Are you on sentry duty or what?”

       “Oh, there's nowt to worry about here. It's a fine life.”

      “To be sure” replied Ira. “But you never know what might be around the corner, do you?”  

      “Bit of fun wallaby shootin – go out through Toorak to the bush, good sport. Look like y'could handle a gun.” Ira must have looked interested, as he went on “What's y'r name.”

      Momentarily off guard he began to speak his name and caught himself half way and his “”I...Frank” sounded quite comical to the Englishman who replied in mock nativese “I Percy...him Reggie” pointing to a companion strolling up to join them. Ira was more and more pleased to be talking to them, and the wallaby hunt was on. They were keen to share their life and he was keen to be helped into this English colony.

       He saw more of the soldiers around town, and they seemed to be well involved in civic matters, and well respected by the populace. He was told how fortunate he was to be arriving in this civilised period, that the city was unrecognisable from the lawless and filthy place of yore, which turned out to be a mere ten years earlier. However, it was a shame that he had missed the Melbourne Cup, a horse race of great repute which also seemed to be the social event of the year. He was intrigued to find, in the beautiful parklands nearby, a considerable crowd watching a game of cricket. He had not only seen it before but had played it. Many of his friends had, but time, equipment and space were all a problem, and out West they had adapted the game to a simpler affair needing just a few sacks and a ball. The players were highly skilled, and he was told that they were George Parr's team out from England. He resolved to try it sometime.

       In the meantime, some cash would be useful, and he made himself useful  training horses for the police nearby. In this he had to contend, of course, with Irish trainers who knew their horses well, but he understood both the horses and, to a lesser extent, the Irish, and was tolerated by both.

       Toorak turned out to be a pleasant wooded area sloping down to the Yarra River, and beyond the houses, which were often stylish and gracious, the city devolved into scrub, bush and parkland running along the winding river banks. The most gracious and stylish house of all was Government House, where they picked up a few more riders including an aboriginal guide. His new friends were a cheerful lot, and mostly English. Perce and Reggie seemed to enjoy their life and were thinking of  staying on in Australia.

       “We left it ten years too late mate...shoulda been out here for the gold.”
 

      “Plenty left in the ground, they say. They say we're walking all over it.”

      “Well, if kangaroo shit was gold I'd be a rich man Perce. Still, I reckon the money's in the dirt. What do you say Frank?”

      Wondering who he was talking to, Ira didn't reply for a moment, but covered his confusion with an appearance of deep, deliberate thought.

      “Wal, that's a mighty deep one” he replied in a mock Western drawl which drew appreciative roars from the soldiers who appeared to be somewhat light-headed with combination of freedom and fresh air.

       “You sure sound like a Yankee, Frankee. Sure you haven't skee-daddled out of that little shindig over there?” Without waiting for an answer, Reggie went on to say “We had a couple of deserters coming through last week in my humble opinion. I can smell 'em a mile off. Lucky to get out alive they were and they won't be going back. They can't hold out against the Union forever. What do you think Frank? I reckon you're one o' them Yankee gentlemen whose families don't have to fight.”

       “My father was certainly a respectable gentleman, Reg.”

      “Ha, thought as much. Not like us mate” he cried, turning in the saddle towards Percy. “Some people have all the luck, not for the likes of us though. Still, Frank, where else would y'like to be on this lovely day.”

      The temperature was rising steadily and the early Summer air hummed with bees and a myriad flying insects. Seed pods crackled in the sun, and strange birds whizzed overhead, uttering stranger cries. From a distance came the clear rhythmic bite of the woodsman's axe, while not a cloud marred the clarity of the bluest sky. Could this be the be his future?

      Every man was mounted, and they had with them a local aborigine. Ira looked with curiosity at the man from that mysterious race. He saw immediately that he was very different from the Indians he knew so well. He sat his horse well, and moved with supple ease. He rode with the leader of the hunt, pointing from time to time at paw prints, scats and bent grasses. The countryside was an open book to him, and before long they drew close to a broad plain where they fanned out into a semi-circle. Only those near the centre of the arc were permitted to fire, to avoid accidental injury. Bertie (the troopers had named him after Queen Victoria's husband) held up one hand, and the group paused. Down through the remaining stand of slender straight eucalypts Ira could see yellowish green grass cleared like parkland. A dark head popped up, with ears like a mule, twitching this way and that. It was a wallaby, a kind of small kangaroo. He became aware of another head behind it, and shifting his vantage point a little, spied several more, part of a mob. As he shifted, Bertie motioned again for stillness, and the troop froze for a couple of minutes. The lightest of breezes wafted from the mob, helping to conceal their presence. In contrast to their military gear, the men were dressed in loose, comfortable clothing, with nothing shining, gleaming or clinking. Handing over their horses, Bertie and a few men set off as pincer scouts round the flank of the mob. After some time the wallabies began to twitch and peer, standing on their hind legs for a better view. Little by little they began to drift toward the troop, nervous of the few men whose presence upwind they were now aware of. Guns were primed and firing positions taken up. It was quite a military operation.

      As a guest Ira was one of the hunters, and he appreciated the courtesy. As the men on the far side burst from cover, well out of range, the wallabies took to their elongated heels. Ira had already selected his most likely target and dropped the unfortunate creature quickly. He didn't feel he needed to bag another, and handed over to a horse-minder, taking his place so that the other could have an opportunity. After the carnage was over he inspected the dead animals. A couple were strapped to horses for transport and one was set aside for Bertie. The rest were left to rot and voracious flies were already descending on the carcases.  

      Ira had mixed feelings as he surveyed the scene. A baby wallaby had emerged from its dying mother's pouch to wander off in the bush alone. The creatures seemed so inoffensive and vulnerable that he couldn't help but feel guilty in their destruction. He thought of the Great Plains and the vast herds of mighty bison he had seen there. They had seemed, at least, a formidable creature. And the stage, the endless plain, was also of epic proportions, with the mighty Rocky mountains as a backdrop. The constant was the white man slaughtering, often at the expense of the aboriginal tribes who needed these creatures for their livelihood. He could see that their fur was fine and that they would have commercial value for skins and meat. Surely that would seal their fate.

      Bertie, it seemed, was done for the day, and rode up to Reggie, speaking to him in a strange patois.

     “Hey boss, me knock up longa kangaroo – shoot im quick, shoot im good – gib im baccy.”

      Reggie called the troop in, and producing a hessian bag, had a whip-around for Bertie. He was paid in tobacco, sugar and flour all nicely wrapped and secured and Bertie balanced the new spoils against the wallaby and set off with the day still young.

       “Does he own that horse?” asked Ira, mindful of the ways of the Indian with horses.

      “Ha that's a good one. He doesn't own anything bless ya. What do you think of his pay?”

      “ He might prefer money like the rest of us.”

      “Yes, and you know where that'll go dontcha?”

      “Grog?”

      “Yep. Wipe himself out in no time. All gone, nothing to show for it. They can't handle it y'know.”

      “Unlike us?” returned Ira.

      Ira was considered quite a wit, but he saw that they didn't really take the point seriously. Already he had picked up the drinking situation in this colony. Could these soldiers not see around them, in civilian life and in their own army, the grip which grog held? He supposed it was just a facet of frontier life, in America or this place.

      A small group returned with news of a camping spot ahead. It was by the river, and when they arrived  a large fire was already burning and  a wallaby carcase was already prepared for the coals. Water was hauled from the river and set to boil as the wallaby cooked. The men who could swim took to the water and Ira was amused to see their naked white bodies looking so ghostly in that bush setting, his own included. They were not too different from his old friends and it was easy to fall in with their way of life, but he felt that he had outgrown that part of his life and had to move on.

       They were pleasant company, but just like soldiers everywhere. As the only game in town, they were a jovial lot. They had the horses and they had the guns. There were no French to fight, and no Indians. The aborigines were a nuisance to be sure in some areas but had been pushed further and further back into arid, parched lands of little interest to the whites. And there was no slavery here. The convicts had done all that, but now the last convict ship had unloaded, never to return, and many of the convicts had made good and now blended, indistinguishable from the rest of the population. This might be a good jumping-off point for a better life – he was thinking of the crowded streets and slums of Liverpool and the grime and grey of those manufacturing cities. As he dried off by the fire, he revelled in the moment of pure well-being. The wallaby meat was tender and succulent and he ate it ravenously with fresh damper and hot tea. These people seemed not to have heard of coffee.

      With the food came some drink, and with the drink came some song and loud discussions as well as heated argument. And when it came to heated argument, there was little more inflammatory than the topic of the Civil War. Strange that the topic of which he was most knowledgeable should be the one he could not appear to know too much about. Opinion was divided along many lines. There were those who saw slavery as a great evil, and in simple terms supported the efforts of the Federal Government to preserve the Union. Some of these were by temperament inclined to support the rule of law and the maintenance of Government. And there were others who saw the war as high interference with the freedoms and the liberties of the Southern States, bullying which resonated powerfully with those of Scottish and Irish descent.

       “Frank here knows all about it – he's a real Yankee. Come on Yankee Frankee, who's  gointa win and who's gointa lose. Come on boys, listen to Frankee, straight from the horse's mouth.”

      Ira now had the stage he never wanted. Not normally expansive, he now had to deliver. It had been madness to get involved with these men, but there was nothing for it but to bluff it out.

      “ I don't know that I'm what you call a fighting man.”

 “Handle a gun pretty well for a non-fighting man.”

      “He's from one of them rich families what's been there forever. Y'can tell.”

      “Yes Frank. Where do the Williamses come from. Welsh I bet.”

      A cheer went up from a number of Joneses and Morgans followed by a burst of song in old Welsh, followed by sundry cries of “Pipe down” and “Piss off ye Men of Harlech”.

      “Well the Williams family has long produced the best milk, butter and dairy produce in New York State” – here, cries of “I knew it” and “That's where the money comes from” and “That's what I'll do here, mark my words”. He was aware, again, that they saw him as a certain sort of person, but just what, he didn't quite know – perhaps some sort of gentleman adventurer. He knew that they judged by his clothes (and he did dress well, as much as a matter of economy as anything) and his speech, which was self-assured, if foreign.

      Ira felt guilty as he continued, sheltering behind his father. “My father had very strong views on slavery and  expressed them forcibly in Chapel”. This went down well, he could see. “And as far as the use of force is concerned, he was prepared to defend his country against any foe-except itself. No-one thought it would come to this. All I can tell you is that a civil war is a great evil, and too many of my friends have already paid for it with their lives. I'm not sure they knew what they were fighting for. My cousin, Titus Coan, I don't know if you have heard of him” but a few whistles round the fire showed that he was well-known, some approving, some derogatory, but all in their own way respectful at least “has spent a lifetime preventing people from falling into slavery.”

      “Yes, and selling them into the slavery of Religion” was a belligerent response.

       “That's one view of it – I don't think he's done them any harm.” He felt that they had now placed him as a pacifist or a Quaker of the New England variety, and for the moment, that suited him well. He also felt, with a shudder of apprehension, that he had blundered in divulging his surname through Titus. Maybe they would just assume it was through the female line. He threw them a carrot. “I feel that any man is entitled to defend his homeland.” No-one was prepared to dispute this of course, and each man was free to draw his own conclusions concerning his sympathies. Before long, he realised that they were not terribly interested in the broader causes of the war, but were keenly interested in the weapons and tactics of the two armies. This made conversation much more general as he described what he knew of the artillery and light weaponry of both sides, on both land and sea. The developments in the Navy fascinated them, and he realised that they were concerned for the maintenace of England as the world's greatest sea-power.

      Furnished with a willing audience, Ira expanded into subjects which he knew well –  Indians, Mexicans and Texas, New Mexico and Arizona. He was quite non-specific in his descriptions, and no-one seemed to notice or care. As they ambled homewards toward a low, crimson sun, Reg rode up companionably next to Ira.

  “Y'know Frank, and forgive me for saying so, but I reckon you're not quite what you seem to be.”

      “How so, Reg?”

      “You look right at home atop that horse, y'know how to handle a gun and we didn't have to tell you anything on the scout. I reckon you're out here looking for deserters, am I right?”

      Trying not to show relief, and to appear slightly annoyed as if his cover had been blown, Ira sighed and replied thoughtfully

  “I've made certain promises Reg, which I'm sure you'll understand – officially, my lips are sealed, but you're not far off at all.” Reggie slapped his thigh with delight, and Ira knew his stocks had not suffered in the least.

       On the following day he watched a cricket match in the parkland at Richmond, and was impressed by the skill of the English visitors. Their captain was a “gentleman” and the players were working class “professionals”. Ira had played cricket at home, but during his time out West, they had adapted the game into a simpler, faster form with sacks for  wickets and a simple club for a bat, but he found himself itching to test himself. Wandering off to another game, he found the captain agitated at the dearth of batsmen and was co-opted to make up the numbers. He soon discovered why the batsmen had vanished. A couple of the local boys, inspired and nettled by the success of the English fast bowlers, were doing their best to emulate and surpass them. The results were sometimes laughable, as the ball whizzed harmlessly overhead or desperately wide. The results were not so laughable when an occasional ball landed on target, flying off the uneven pitch at an unpredictable level. Ira was suddenly aware of several areas of his body which he would dearly like to protect. Deciding that discretion was the better part of valour, he played defensively until the lads tired. Without covering himself with glory, he partnered a better player in a useful innings, and was warmly congratulated for his efforts.

       That was the last of sports or outings, for the weather turned vile, and he found himself cold and depressed. He was assured that this was the nature of Melbourne, and that even though there was glorious weather to enjoy, the dominant influence was that of the damp grey rain belts forever blowing up from the great Southern Ocean. After several days of heavy rain the Yarra River had broken its banks and was flooding vast areas of the settlement. Many were destitute, and he realised that much of the population were failed gold-seekers. There seemed not much immediate prospect of better work, so the following week saw him en route to Sydney.

  Before he embarked, he sat down to compose a letter, which he had thought over many times. He had delayed writing till this stage, because he had not wanted to indicate his likely whereabouts, or even his ship, to an intercepting eye.

“Dear Mother” it read,

“by now you will possibly realise that I am a long way from home. At this stage I am not dead, and am feeling a little more alive each day that passes. When I last saw you, I was not sure what action I should take, but now I have to be reckoned as a despised deserter. The only thing worse is to be an active pawn in this game which has cost the lives of so many poor boys who don't know why they are fighting. The men I guarded at Governor's Island were more like my old mates than my colleagues were. They showed the sort of spirit that got us through our captivity, and their officers were in with them, not like ours who acted superior. The Irish were disgraceful in the riots which you heard of no doubt, but they have been badly treated too. My health is good and I have met good people, but my opinion of mankind is pretty low in general. I think of father's words more now and I am beginning to understand his attitudes more. I hope the winter will not be too hard and you have got everyone looking after you. I hope to contact you again before long.

Your loving son who shall remain nameless until this letter is delivered.”

 He sent it to Asahel, in case his mother's mail was intercepted by a local agent. He trusted Asahel to pass it on.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

FRANK IN QUEENSLAND

A heavy coastal journey culminated in the glorious entrance to Sydney Harbour. Unlike the tedium of negotiating Melbourne's endless, flat, wide bay, the Sydney Harbor was guarded by two imposing headlands, ushering ships into a beautiful long run into Sydney Town. This was older, more settled and very relaxed after Melbourne's self-conscious effort to keep up appearances, and Ira was able to fit into the life here easily, as long as he wasn't too ambitious. The sub-tropical climate was pleasant and people were easy-going and accepting, but he soon realised that it was still an English colony, and English officials and governors arrived constantly to take up the best jobs and to run the place. This was not the new frontier he had been looking for, and he began to think again of moving on.

      Ira recalled the conversations on the “Great Victoria” centered around Queensland and it was there that his thoughts turned more and more frequently. It took a while, but again he found himself sailing northward, past miles of gleaming white beaches and emerald bays, lush forest and handsome rivers. The air was mild and moist as the journey took him to Brisbane, which he found in the middle of a population and building boom. He pressed on for Rockhampton, now designated a port of entry to Queensland. The coastline was quite beautiful, and the aquamarine of the shallows enchanted everyone aboard. It was easy to imagine that they were about to arrive in a Garden of Eden. He said so to a thoughtful-looking man standing next to him on deck.

      “Wait till you see it” replied that man. Then, musingly, “Lots of fine places here. Plenty of water, soil's rich. C'd be a great country, feed lots of people. Ever heard of Mackay? No? I believe you will – I believe you will.”

  Ira had heard this before, many times. The Edens and Shangri-Las which peopled many imaginations were always an enticement, but rarely did anything eventuate. Promises of jobs and land were well-meant, but lightly given, and just as lightly forgotten. Nevertheless, something about the man impressed Ira, as he seemed to be not only sincere, but consumed by a strong inner life, his mind obviously fixated on concerns of his own. It took him some time to grant Ira the usual courtesy of conversational attention, as if he needed convincing that he was worth talking to, but after some time he scrutinised Ira as they talked, in a searching and particular manner.

      “Cotton's the thing Frank” murmured Mr. Fitzgerald.

      “Yes, Sir” he replied.

       “No need for that here Frank. Call me Tom. Y'see, this war – you've heard of it I take it? Well, it's opened up the market for cotton. Price is sky-high. Make a lot o' money Frank.”                              

      “I'd like that Tom.”

      “No, not you – me. Maize too – people gotta eat. Be a big food producing centre here. Fine future. Could raise a family. Lots of kids. What d'ye think?”

      “I think that would be very nice for you sir.”

      “No, not me – you.”

      “Oh – I think I'd need a wife for that sir, I mean Tom.”

       “Ah – I'll have to introduce you to m'daughter...”

      “I'm sure I'd like that Tom” said Ira, who was pretty sure that anyone related to Tom would not be short on some sort of special quality. Just what it would be was hard to say. He'd known strange things to happen in such matters.

      It was not usual for a man to offer an introduction in this way. It was just like the West he thought. People are the same everywhere. We are just not meant to live alone. There were those girls who traipsed out west having failed to secure a husband back home, and who were eagerly snapped up by lonely men. And many of them made good marriages too. And here it would be the same. There were the Irish girls in the same situation, no work at home, the men off in the British Army, and so trying their luck in the new wilderness. There were more than enough suitors for these girls and they could afford to be choosy, so they didn't need any introductions.

       He was invited to call on Tom in his temporary office in Mackay. The place was another Queensland cattleyard, this one  well-watered by the Pioneer River. It had promise, and was clearly going ahead. Tom  seemed to have forgotten Ira already, and was feverishly writing something which had him steamed up. Ira waited politely for a moment as Tom frowned and focussed on his task; then he closed his journal and rose, greeting him warmly.

      “Frank, Frank! Been expecting you. Wondering where you'd got to. This is Joe, he's my assistant” gesturing to a younger man in a natty suit. He was a stout, working type and winked at Ira in a conspiratorial way which he neither understood nor appreciated, but he nodded back.

       “Assistant what, exactly, Tom?”

      “Aha! Good question. Exactly! What? Just what do you do Joe?”, and without waiting for an answer he went on “Joe is Assistant surveyor to Fitzgerald Industries” and will be assistant founder of Alexandra Cotton, and possibly the assistant Manager of the Alexandra Sugar Mill. After that he will be Assistant Prime Minister of the new State of North Queensland, what shall we call it? That's what we should decide now I think – let's have a drink.”

  Ira had heard this sentiment from many an Irishman, but in Tom's gentle brogue it sounded like the height of civilisation. And certainly, ensconced in the comfortable cane chairs on Tom's verandah, shaded by magnificent eucalypts, it was hard to imagine any other world. There was an air of self-sufficiency about this world that Ira rather liked.

       Tom was a good conversationalist – when you could get his attention. He was easily distracted, and would flit from subject to subject. He had been  some time in New Zealand and had obviously been thwarted in his political aspirations there. Ira wondered if he was headed for the same outcome in Queensland. Brandy, soda and fruit were comforting and warming, and the time passed pleasantly. One felt, thought Ira, that one was on the verge of Great Nationhood in this situation. Abruptly, Joseph tapped Tom on the arm, and he jumped with a start.

   “Sorry old man” – it was comical to hear his English mannerisms in an Irish brogue.

  “I have to run” and run he did, literally racing onto the dusty road and back into the little cluster of Civic buildings.

 

MARY

 He sipped the remainder of his brandy, and was just preparing to leave when, from the return verandah emerged a young woman – no doubt the aforementioned daughter. He was pleasantly surprised. Jane was tall, in fact, taller than he was, and well-made with a pleasant oval face and a modulated voice which contrasted favorably with much of what he had grown accustomed to. He liked her, and she seemed to like him. But more than that he did not feel, nor, he suspected, did she.

       “So you're a new chum, Mr. Williams?”

      He was getting used to this conversation, but preferred to have it with young women at least.

  “So I am told, and so I am reminded, frequently. Apparently it shows.”

      “Clipped accents and gentlemanly deportment are a giveaway Mr. Williams and mark you out as a novice.”

      “I  promise to work on it Miss Fitzgerald and I faithfully promise not to stand too straight – should be no problem; this sun would make anything wilt.”

      Even in the heat, Ira noticed that she colored, and thought how nice it would be if he liked her a great deal. Fitzgerald's house was a well-made colonial affair along the Indian model with long cool verandahs, and it was to the southern wing, well-shaded,  that she invited him. At the end of the verandah, ensconced in one of the large cane chairs was a neat figure completely oblivious to their conversation. She was small and very pretty. She was also very angry and it was an effort for her to focus on Jane and what she was saying, which was “...and this is Frank.”

       The young woman muttered something at them both, something quite unintelligible, looked again at Ira with what appeared to be pure contempt, and again muttering something low in Jane's direction, swept away.

      “I'm sorry about that. We can talk another time. She's lovely actually, but rather upset.”

 “What's the problem?”

      “She hasn't been here long – arrived with her sister, that's Biddy, and her husband Denis Bailey. They're from Ireland as you can see (Ira had not seen) and they've fetched up here. Like the rest of us he thinks he's going to make good with cotton and the like, and if he wants to he probably will. But Mary's a fresh flower, and you know what it's like here I'm sure – many suitors, Mr. Williams but not many suitable. Well, I know how it is, and I let them down lightly, not to boast, but that's how it is. It's been rather a shock to Mary though, and she feels she's being auctioned off. Already there are three men in this area who have asked permission to marry her.”

      “And what has her guardian said?”

      “Nothing to do with her guardian – that's more Bridget than Dennis anyway – it's the Government they have to ask. They're ex-convicts and if they are to marry they must get governmental permission. She feels it's humiliating as she has no interest in them at all, but they can declare a public interest in her – only what you'd expect I suppose – I've been sought out too – but a shock to a young girl.”

      Ira gallantly declared surprise that Mary was at all younger than Jane, who duly acknowledged the courtesy. Jane really was very pleasant company, but already he wanted to see that other face again, with so much light and intensity in it; already he could see the bow in her lips in his imagination, and the soft skin of her throat, with the most delicate veins drawing little patterns.        

      “But, don’t the girls come here looking for husbands?”

 

“She’s young, and sheltered and I don’t think anyone has had the heart to tell her what it’s all about.”

 

“If I may be indelicate, where do you stand yourself, Jane, on this matter?”   

 

“I don’t, Frank. If I don’t marry, it will be the Lord’s will.”

 

“Sounds like it’d be your will Jane.”

 

Jane laughed, pleasantly, Ira thought. “I write, I play the piano, I even compose music. I would find it hard to give up these things to submit to a man who would then endanger my life through childbirth.”

 “Are you scared of having children?”

 

“No-terrified. Sorry to be blunt, but that’s how I feel. And even if you have them, there’s the life of drudgery and ingratitude to follow. It doesn’t always turn out for the best-in fact…” and she left the statement unfinished for Ira to mull over.

 

“You mention the Lord’s will Jane – don’t you think it’s his will for women to bear children? As well as that, there is the natural law.”

      “Ah, now you’re talking sense. After all, the Law is an ass isn’t it?      

“So it would follow that the natural law is a natural ass.  As for natural, well it’s natural to die in childbirth, it’s natural for children to die, and I think it’s also natural to want to survive.”

  It had been over four years now since he had lost Esmeralda, and still he was haunted by the scene of her passing. The emotion he felt was powerful, and he had little hope of concealing it from Jane, but she read his mood as one who resented a woman's protest, and he left it at that.  

      Ira thought that he worked single-mindedly for the next week, but the truth was that his mind was anywhere but on the horses he was training. He hovered around the Fitzgerald house till he finally succeeded in running across Jane. Her greeting betrayed amusement, and Ira guessed that he had been spotted in the vicinity and he wondered whether his motives were guessed at.

 

 “Good afternoon Mr. Williams – what brings you to these parts?”

 

“Well, I live here.”

 

“Yes, but Mackay’s getting to be a big place now – I mean, in our neck of the woods.”

 

“It’s an attractive part of town.”      

      “I’ll grant you that Mr. Williams, but no more attractive than many other parts. What could be so special about this street? Is it the garden? It’s coming along well isn’t it?”

  They talked about the garden.

  “Is it the bird life, Mr. Williams, or the fauna? There are certainly some exotic species here” she added slyly. Ira negotiated the heavy-handed diversion with patience.

       “I'm very fond of exotic species Jane, and I would like to learn more about them. Trouble is, they seem very shy.”

      “Yes, and somewhat wild too, unless you treat them right.”

       Ira was tiring of this game, and the banter made him nervous. He didn't know how long he would be in Rockhampton, or where the next job would take him. He had to earn a living, but he wasn't in love with work for work's sake.  

      “Your Irish friend – Mary, is she still with you? Is she still upset?”

 “Oh, young Mary! She thinks she's a long way from home she does. And she is not welcoming advances from importunate men. And I don't know what you've done my lad, but I'm afraid she has really taken a set against you.”

      Crestfallen and nonplussed, Ira found words hard to come by and Jane guessed his distress, adding “But I'll see what can be done.”  

 They talked some more, but Ira was genuinely upset. There were pretty girls here, and he could see they were not averse to him, but for once, he was completely at a loss. He met with Fitzgerald and Holmes on a couple of occasions, and went fishing with some of their friends. The fishing was good, and remnded him of his boyhood days on Coan Pond. He was about to tell them all about it, but found it didn't have the same ring when rendered  “Williams Pond”.  

 The town already boasted a hotel, grandly named the Metropolitan. There was no end to mankind's pretension thought Ira as he took in the rustic edifice. Nevertheless it served its purpose well and was a haven of sorts. There was company of sorts, and also conversation of sorts. John O'Reilly was the proprietor and he enjoyed hosting a party. The ubiquitous fiddle and the tremulous flute enlivened the sultry summer air as the little pocket of mankind did its best to lighten the vast black gloom of the Australian bush. The floorboards banged and the rafters rang while the drink flowed and the fights broke out. By midnight all was in blackness as the exhausted little town licked its wounds and fell asleep. Parish, his own home town, must have been like this once. Parish was still a sleepy little backwater, but what did the future hold for Mackay?

  “Top o the mornin Frank” John O'Reillly would open. “I know ye won't be havin a drink at this time o day Frank, but perhaps ye'll be havin a coffee.”

 “I will John, but only if I can make it.”

 “Y'r a quare sort of Englishman Frank. A democratic sort of chap – I'm not meetin many o those. Tell me now, what's bringin' y'to this Garden of Eden I wonder. And jost where are ye from? I'm havin thrubble wit y'r accent to be sure.”

 “Born in Wales actually John.”

 “Ah, well, dere's y'r Williams o'course – but...”

 Ira thought it best to cut him short.

  “Not too much work there John, you know how it is. So I moved out and worked on the canals. You can imagine how that affected my accent.”

 O'Reilly dubiously agreed that it might do such a thing. For his part Ira felt reasonably comfortable with this fiction drawn from the reality of his childhood and youth.

 “But a young man – ” and again Ira saw where this was heading.

 “Well, yes, I see what you're getting at.”

 He wondered just how much to tell, and as he wondered, the past rose up around him again. O'Reilly was embarrassed by the long pause.

 “Only if ye feel like it” he said gently.

  Ira felt self-conscious as if he were back at Fort Bliss, taking part in one of their theatrical entertainmnents.

  “Yes, I was married.”

 “Well, it doesn't always work out now does it Frank?”

 “That's it John. That's it.”

 “Plenty of fish in the sea Frank, and you're still a young man.”

 Ira realised that O'Reilly had assumed that she had left him. For a moment he thought he might leave that idea with him, but pride wounded, he rejoined

  “No, not at all. My wife died in childbirth.”

 “Ah, yes, that happens a lot” replied O'Reilly, in an abstracted way, and Ira suddenly realised that he was not believed, that the death was presumed a cover for his mortification at being abandoned. He was deep in thought as he poured the rich brew. He thought that O'Reilly was looking hard at him. The word would soon go round that he was a refugee from a broken romance, who had made up a tale of woe to salve his pride.

 “And how long were yez married if y'don't mind me askin Frank?”

 Ira did mind and replied

  “Of course I don't mind.”

  The man seemed suspicious, even if he couldn't be blunt.

  “A year or so John. A year, that's all.”

  “And y'were always happy then, Frank?”

 “I don't think I believe in happiness John. Cheerfulness is a fine thing if you can manage it – not too good at it myself. I like to enjoy myself though.” Ira spoke from the heart, but O'Reilly seemed anxious suddenly to get on with his chores.

 Ira felt he had earned his coffee, and was more than happy to pay for it despite O'Reilly's insistence on hospitality. It was soon after this that Isabella O'Reilly began to treat him as more than a customer and seemed to positively encourage his visits. No doubt moved by her husband's report of Ira's travails, she was all kindness and solicitude. Ira again felt it would be merely churlish to deny her the satisfaction of providing Christian charity, and accepted her attentions with good grace, including her invitation to a St. Patrick's day party.

  As he knew well, the Irish liked to keep St. Patrick's day holy – and wet! Again, he saw a town divided, as the Irish gathered, in good spirits and fine voice, to celebrate their great saint, who was implored to return to Mackay and drive the snakes out of there too. Never overly fond of drink, Ira had to refuse some aggressive hospitality, leading to harsh words. He knew full well that in this new community, reputations stuck.

  “Y'll drink wit us or y'll drink wit d'pigs” declared a steaming mountain of a man. Ira had politely declined several invitations already. He even felt that the invitation was not even rough hospitality, but a desire to lower the behaviour of anyone who took on airs. There was nothing for it he saw. He had to do something decisive now or he would be putting up with this forever. He replied

  “At least pigs can hold their liquor.” And he provoked the man by tapping his glass quickly and firmly. The eager crowd gathering round enjoyed the joke as the fellow proved literally unable to hold his drink. This had the desired effect, and the fellow made the move he'd been waiting for, and one which he didn't want him to be making with a glass in hand. Enraged as well as drunk, he lurched at Ira swiping mightily, a gift to an adversary with his wits about him and quick on his feet. Throwing compunction to the wind, Ira did what he had to do without doing too much damage, and making a show of it. The reputation it would earn him would be useful for years to come.

  His opponent, exhausted more from his wild swinging than by the hurts inflicted by Ira, was consoled by his friends, while Ira accepted a cup of tea by way of refreshment. “Tough little rooster” and “ Wouldn't go crossing that chap” were down payments on the credit he had earned. But as he walked back past the hotel, he saw the only face he really cared for turned away in haughty disdain. “Oh damn” he thought. His popularity with the rest of the town, however, rose – it was ever thus he reflected.

 Ira kept busy, and steadily accumulated. He was haunted however, by the vision of the fair face in the crowd, and began to feel nettled at the unfair perception and low opinion she had of him. He now made it his business to be around Tom's house to retrieve items he had intentionally lost or to seek Jane's advice on various local matters. These visits were made in the hours when young visitors were most likely to call, and so it was hardly coincidence that there soon arrived an occasion when Mary Griffin, arriving to visit her friend Jane, was disconcerted by the presence of a rather intense young man.

      Ira had spied out his small adversary upon her approach, as much as anything to see that his senses were not playing him false – and they were not! He found his eyes magnetized to the neat and shapely form of Mary Griffin, Irishwoman, and sister of Mrs. Bridget Bailey. He loved the neat and self-contained way she moved and guessed at her form beneath her rustling skirts. What a gentle roundness shaped her blouse, and how the whiteness of her collar set off the the lovely colour of the nape of her neck, with such fine curls of baby-like hair wisping across the cotton. He could not take his eyes off her face as she approached them, and stood courteously as she seated herself demurely, and a little stiffly, Ira thought.

       Much fuss was made of the tea ceremony as Jane chatted amiably. Ira answered where he could, greedily drinking in every detail of her face – the fine nose, the even, gray eyes that seemed to carry a hurt that needed protecting, and the oval face so open and trusting –  but she didn't trust him, it seemed. Already he felt a pang of jealousy as he wondered how well she had been safeguarded, whether she had left behind a beau and whether she had entertained any other man's proposal.

      Jane had found some port wine, which he had already enjoyed. It relaxed him, so he enjoyed some more. Drifting out of the conversation, his mind wandered, and just for a moment, he relaxed and was back in Texas, sitting in a Spanish garden, sated with food, wine and amor; a mantilla, a bare shoulder and the drug of heavy perfume seemed to pervade the air. The sensual face of Maria Dolores smiled at him, and he smiled back, happy in their intimacy. His eyes closed for a moment and he felt so amused by his memory and the effect of the wine that he began to murmur in Brew's comic voice “Ah Captain Coan, you're a moighty foine fella to be sure, to be sure, to be sure.”  He'd only gotten half way through when he woke to his senses, and realising that he was committed, ploughed on with the thought to its conclusion, his expression changing from amusement to consternation as he went. A moment's dead silence was shattered by the beautiful laughter of the two girls. What a stroke of luck. The ice was shattered, surely.

      “Whatever did that mean Frank?” asked Jane. “And who is Captain Coan?”

       Playing for time Ira answered  “With your knowledge of human nature, Jane, I thought you might be able to explain – or you, Mary.”

  How lovely she looked when she smiled, he thought. This was quite to their taste as they realised that Ira had drifted out of the here and now and was in another realm. It was as exciting as a séance or an opium dream. Eagerly they dissected his brief utterance, much to Ira's dismay. He thought of defusing the conversation altogether, but then, since it might have found a key to Mary's trust, he decided to humour them at some risk.

       “ Now that was an interesting accent Frank. It sounded like one of our old relatives.”

      “None of mine” cut in Mary.

      “To be sure, to be sure, to be sure” replied Jane, and to Ira's delight they both laughed uproariously. Ira had some more port wine.

      “Mystery number one, who is Captain Coan, was that the name you said.”

  “I don't know, I wasn't here” he returned, with a look of doltish wonder which set them off again.

       “Hmm...all right...for the moment...then...the voice! It sounded so real, just like a real person, not an actor. Have you had a secret past as an Irishman?”

  Muted merriment, but Mary was looking very hard at him and he had the feeling of being searched very deep. He sipped some more port, just enough to maintain his affable state.

      “It was a voice Frank” and Mary's voice was earnest to the point of passion. He thrilled to hear her use his name, even though he was still struggling to get used to it himself. “I mean, a real voice – someone's voice. Whose voice is it?”

       “Well, yez are after d'truth and d'truth I shall tell yez.”

  This was his normal stage-Irish accent and was accepted as such, though he fancy Mary scowled a little, but without any real venom. “I had a friend who was a little different from other men. Now let me see, his name was...he came from a far-off land where they have fifty words for green, where no-one believes in the Little Folk, but most people have seen 'em, and where there's more water in the sky than there is in the rivers. And his name was...oh, it just won't come to me...it's enough to make a dog beat his father.  He was a friendly fellow who loved nothing more than a good fight so I'd give him one, you know, just to make him happy...and his name was...oh yes, I remember, it was Brew...or that's what we called him anyway. I wonder what his real name was.” More mirth and merriment, and the moment passed with no damage done – or so he hoped.

      “And where did you meet this Irish friend, Mr. Williams, Frank? I think you must have an interesting past – you don't talk much about yourself, are you hiding something from us?” Jane was a bit too sharp for comfort. Some things would out in time, but Ira didn't want to force the pace.

       “I have travelled Jane – we all have. A great many of my friends are Irish.”

  Here Mary blurted out “But you're English” and for Ira the penny dropped. Mary was one of those raised with a fierce resentment of all things English, and her hostility was based on his supposed nationality.     

      “Actually, the family is Welsh, but I've travelled a bit.”

       “Ah – that would explain your peculiar accent.”

      Ira thought he had been doing well with the accent to that point, and he was disconcerted. No-one else had ever commented.

      Mary began a recitation which was obviously well-known to them both, for Jane joined in “The Christian prays on Sunday, the Jew prays on the Sabbath and the Welshman preys on his neighbours.”

       He hadn't known it before, but suddenly realised that the Welsh must have a reputation for parsimony, of which he should have been aware.

      “Well yes, I suppose we have been frugal, but that is a response to English domination over centuries.” He hoped that his coloring with momentary embarrassment would be taken for racial indignation, and it seemed to be, for Mary smiled at him with new, conspiratorial, eyes. He regretted the deception already and only wished it were not necessary.

      “And lady friends, Mr. Williams – it's unusual for a man of your age not to be married, or to have lady friends, unless you're not the marrying kind.” Jane was amused at her own remark, but Mary looked confused. So was Ira. He didn't want to appear either a roue or a sap, and blurted out a half-truth

  “But I was married – my wife died. That's why I'm here.” And again he wondered where this tangle might lead him. Both girls looked suitably sympathetic and both looked deeply thoughtful.

      It was a couple of days later that Ira approached the house, to find Mary sitting on the verandah, as if she were waiting.

  “Mary, I'll take you for a walk, if you care to come.”

      “No”, she answered, “I'll take you for a walk.”

  In this woman-hungry township, an escort was certainly necessary, but together, they strolled freely. He offered an arm, which was taken gracefully. He was dazed and dazzled by the electricity of their contact, and knew that he was hopelessly in love. She didn't make small talk, but walked in companionable silence. In the various backgrounds, birds cawed and carolled, cattle lowed and roared and horses clattered. Whips cracked and voices rose and fell. By the river small craft were busy with their freight and water birds drifted lazily.

      Abruptly she spoke. “Frank – why did you lie to me?”

      Miserable, he answered “In what regard?”

      “You mean there's more? You're a man of mystery Frank. You're older than I – you know a lot, you can do almost anything you put your hand to, you could live off the Sahara desert. But you never mention your parents, or brothers and sisters. I don't know where you've been and what you've been doing or why you're here. You were not married were you?”

      “Yes, I was Mary.”

 “You know Frank, I thought you were lying. Something didn't seem to be quite right. You said your wife died and that's why you were here. Could there be another reason?”

 She paused, and went on gently. “I'm here because I couldn't stay there. It's very simple. Nothing to eat and a dog's life. I saw too many people die. It's not good for you Frank.”

 “Mary,” he sighed. I really don't want to tell everyone, but yes, I was married – to Esmeralda. And I loved her dearly, but she died in childbirth. At the time it was the end of my world. But now, I'm happy to be here, and I like being here with you.”   

      Her arm squeezed more tightly and he breathed freely again. He disengaged his arm to look at her, and knew he couldn't go on with the pretence. She was deeper and more serious-minded than he had thought. She had set the agenda for this meeting and seemed to be making it clear that she wanted a partnership, not a takeover.

      “And why are you here Frank?”

      “Look-I'll tell you – but it's a gamble – I've got a lot to lose.”

      “And what are you gambling Frank, if that's your name? The truth, against what?”

      “Well, I suppose, Mary – ” he didn't know how to go on, for he didn't want to declare quite like this.

  “I was hoping we might have a future together.”
 

 “So you'd gamble the truth for me. The truth would have to be mighty important to impress me Frank. I don't like to be gambled. It isn't nice.”

      “But I love you Mary Griffin.”

      “Do you now? And do you not think I would be gambling, my life against a mystery man?”

      On a bench beneath a young peppercorn by the river, Ira began his story.  His fears abated as he talked, and it was such a relief to be able to confide his real history. He didn't leave out Maria Dolores either nor did Mary seem to mind.

       “But why Frank Williams? You could have chosen anything.”

      “It's my mother's name – Frances Williams. And now it's mine, with an “i” not an “e”.”

      “I know how to spell.”

      “And their family was originally Welsh, I like the Welsh and it suits my story.”

      “Well, you'll have to do better than that. You need a past, and you need names and places.”

      “Mary ... ” Ira prepared to broach the proposal, but she placed her finger over his lips.

       “Of course I'll marry you Frank – we're meant to be together.”

    

 

MARRIAGE

      And so, on Friday 18th August 1865, “Frank Williams, widower”, married Mary Griffin at Rockhampton. The Birth place of the groom was noted as Carnarvon in Wales, and his father's name was noted as Sylvanus. In the little Catholic Church the candles glowed and modest sprays of flowers brightened the amber air. In the oasis of polished wood and beeswax the friends and well-wishers sang, prayed and hoped for the best. Ira didn't mind in the least marrying in a Catholic Church – it was so important to Mary. But he couldn't help turning it over in his mind. He could see his father spinning in his grave at the thought. At least the Church was dedicated to St. Joseph, a carpenter and hard-working family man.

  The wedding breakfast was splendid, and, again, people were kind. In no time, however, they were alone together, living in a cottage not far from the River, while Ira mulled over his future.

  “Is this what you imagined when you left Ireland?” he asked Mary.

 “How could I imagine this? We never thought on this scale. Doesn't make it easy though does it? Look who's buying up the land – same moneyed folks to be sure. What d'ye think we'll do Frank?”

 Ira tensed, for he had been dreading broaching the subject. “I've had an offer Mary. It's a nuisance, but if I take it, it'll be a good lump of money to start with.”

  “You'll be away won't you?”

 “Yes, I'm afraid so. Not far, but out nights. It's the Bowen telegraph line. I can do everything they need – I'd be worth quite a bit of saving for them. I  think I can make it work out for us.”

 He felt miserable, but she just said “I'll be alright. It's just what we have to do. Everyone looks more attractive with a little money. I'd like a baby, but I'm not in a hurry if you know what I mean.” Actually he wasn't sure, but nodded a man-of-the-worldish smile, at which they both burst out laughing.  

      “All our friends are in Mackay and the Baileys say I could stay with them. And it's close to our place.”

 “But I've only just told you.”

 “Yes, but everyone's seen you talking to Matthews, and he's the one that hands out all the jobs.”

  Ira was relieved that accomodation would be taken care of, but perplexed that yet again everyone seemed to read him so easily – briefly he wondered how ever he had come to escape his Texan prison. Mackay had a nice ring to it, and people spoke of it as a genuine prospect. The Baileys were Mary's sister, Bridget, and her husband, Dennis, from Limerick.

       He had already seen in this land what a hard life could do. There were old convicts, many of them broken on the wheel of life, but there were also those resilient souls who had grasped fate by the throat and who had wrested a good life from the land, and who prospered in their communities.         

      The life of an axeman was hard, but the money was good and the company fine. The Bowen telegraph line grew mile by mile, and Ira cut and chopped, drilled and hammered. This was the very stuff of settlement, and as he worked he spied out the land around, checking out pockets of river silt which had built up into fertile fields, occasional reefs of rock which might contain gold-bearing quartz and stands of unusual timbers which could have a commercial purpose. He was not the only one of course, and travellers came through from large English firms, spying out the very same attributes.

  He was versatile and reliable, and they were keen to keep him. His newly married status marked him out for teasing and caused his frequent absences to be remarked on to such an extent that he felt he would have to  call a halt before long. The house in Mackay was modest enough, but the sweet interludes in his work life were pure magic, and he often arrived back at the work-place both refreshed and exhausted. Mary positively glowed and he wondered whether or not she might be pregnant. He, too, longed for a child, but prayed “not just yet.” She was good at making friends and the other women in the little town were eager to both protect her and police her. Maria was fun, and they looked after each other.

 The telegraph line snaked across the countryside, curling round streams, and over culverts, but when it began the steady ascent of the hills, Ira decided that the time had come to call it a day. The trips back were becoming longer, and the arrangement unsustainable. At Tierawoomba he wrapped his axe and swag, and set off back to Mackay.

 Closer to town he found another useful stint of work on the Range Road, and although it was killing work, he appreciated it bringing him closer to Mackay, but was pleased when a small problem arose at Eton.

  “We need to cross this creek Frank. Not so hard, but she floods now and then. Whaddya think?”

 “Are you asking me to build a bridge?”

 “Well I am if ya reckon y'can do it – seem t'be able t'do everything else – whaddya say. We can make it worth y'while.”

 And they certainly did. It was a small flat bridge taking the road across a creek, but Ira was determined to give it the stamp of quality. He requisitioned a horse, and set to finding suitable timber. He knew where the best stands were and had contacts on the road. It wasn't long before a small mountain of timber had been amassed at the site. He enjoyed this challenge and showing off to Mary. For her part, she loved going out with the horse, and marvelled at Ira's wood-working skills. Without apparent effort, he split and trimmed timber into beautiful baulks, beams  and logs, a pleasure to look at and a pleasure to touch. In his calm unhurried way, the design of the bridge unfolded in front of her eyes. Ira was using the skills of his old army colleagues as well as those of his family and they both took pride in the finished bridge, which Ira intended to serve the town for many years.

 The whole state was now in a period of economic decline, so that he was surprised and pleased to be offered several more jobs. It was Fitzgerald's deputy, Joseph Holmes who offered him the work-planting maize and cotton. He was pleased to make the move from axe to plow, and already he had a good reputation as a worker. He was amused, but not amazed, to find cotton at the bottom of it all. He was born not far from the Northern mills, ingesting their southern cotton, and pumping it out in acres of cloth, clothing and bedding. It was cotton at the heart of the war he was dragged into, and cotton which got him out. Cotton owed him something and he was determined to take his dues. In this mixed-race colony, where, as he had been told, the Saxon and the Celt would walk together, there would be room for a Yankee to make an honest living, and he meant to succeed.

       He was now twenty-nine he reflected as he steered the horses through the orange loam. The red dust clung to him as the soil clove under the plough. What was Sylvanus up to at twenty-nine? Two wives, one dead, one divorced. Five children and just getting started.  And how old was he when he carved out their farms? More like forty he thought. And the score to then? Three wives and nine children.

  The soil didn't require much turning. It was rich, soft and flat with abundant rain. In went the cotton, and in went the maize. Nothing new under the sun, he thought. Mary came out with him to the fields and together they sowed their future. He delighted in her graceful, composed figure and after a lifetime of solid toil, he was delighted to have a companion in the work. The time passed pleasantly, but still he was left with a gnawing sense of impermanence. Everything here was new. Where were the schools that would teach their children? Where were the galleries and shops, the bakeries, churches and concert halls? A new start needs sacrifices, but it was hard to be without teachers, philosophers, clerics and artists. Whistles and fiddles were fine for the moment, but where were the pianos and brass, the flutes, the strings and concertinas? He put these thoughts to one side and put his hand to the plow and his mind to the here and now.

              FRANK WILLIAMS-COOPER

 While the maize and cotton reminded him of America, the next development gave him pause. “Have you heard” someone mentioned “they say we're in a great spot for sugar.” This was probably not to be wondered at, for the livestock business had plummeted, and farmers could not sell their animals, so that agriculture was looked at afresh. At the same time, a boiling down works was being esablished at Walkerston not far away. A Mr. Ramsay came to see him.

  “You Williams?”

 “Yes'”

 “Pretty handy fella I'm told.”

 “Depends what needs doing.”

 Ramsay looked uncomfortable, as if he didn't want to go on. Somewhat diffidently, for a blustering man, he continued “I uh – need someone to make some vats.”

 “Like a cooper you mean?”

 “Oh I don't know I need a cooper, shouldn't be too hard to knock some vats together I'd reckon.”

 “No, it's not” agreed Ira. “The hard part is to get them to stay together. Tell me what you need, I'll make one, you can have a look at it, and I'll tell you my price.” Ira sensed the time was right for the emergence of a specialised tradesman and could feel his status, and his value, rising by the minute.

 The boiling down works, where the old, useless or excess livestock were boiled down for tallow, was not the kind of place to go for a holiday, but it was a sound commercial venture, and gave Ira a showcase.

 By this time the sugar cane had gone in as well. It was as if Queensland was trying to recreate America's South. No sooner had this thought struck him than he was dismayed by a chilling sight. He had grown used to the occasional aborigines around the town. Many had moved further away into the bush, and some worked for whites, but by and large he was not aware of much interaction. Now, passing through town, came a large group of black men with a white overseer, marching them along. “Kanakas” he was told, South Sea Islanders here to work on the sugar farms – good for them, money to spend, and good for the economy. Ira was aghast. Were they determined to commit every stupidity indulged in by America? Soon he saw that these men were employed by the large landowners and companies, just like the good old South. He also realised that his dreams of working his own land would have him working against impossible odds. Again he saw his father's angry brow, railing against competition from slave workers, or even the Irish, and he began to feel just a little more sympathetic to his parent.

 In the generous sub-tropical climate the sugar cane thrived. Day by day its growth was noticeable, a gold and green army tightly ranked, thrusting upwards. It was not long before the the first crop was harvested, ready for the vats which Ira had already fashioned. His work in the countryside was useful, for he knew where to source the best wood, and he had already been sounded out by other sugar growers. So, instead of investing in land, he built himself a cooperage in the town as well as his own house out of town. Here, the barrels, vats and kegs rolled out just like the old Coan production line of Parish. Mary had taken on some sewing and had made friends in the growing town. Bridget and Dennis were always near, with a young family that was growing fast.  

 It was still quite early in 1868 and they were on a fishing trip. It was early evening on a hot day. The breeze off the ocean was refreshing, they'd covered against sandflies and the mosquitos were not yet out. The sandy flats were good for flathead, and they trawled hopefully for the tasty fish. A  few other anglers trawled in companionable silence a little further along the flats. “Do you miss the rain Mary?”

  “What rain is that?”

 “Irish rain – I'm told there's a lot of it.”

 “And who'd told you that – your old Irish lover when you were a child? You told me about her. What was her name? Kate, was that it? Do you miss her at all Frank?”

 “You have to answer my question first.”

 “I don't have to do anything of the sort.”

 “And why not?”

 “Well, for one, I don't feel like it, and for two, my question is a serious one, and yours is not.”

 “Mine is a serious question.” And he repeated it “Do you miss the rain?”

      “Frank, it's not as if it doesn't rain here, now is it? I never saw the like of it back home. But I know what you mean. It's not just rain there. It's always wet Frank. It just gets in everywhere and you're never really dry. The walls are wet, your clothes are damp there's a funny smell and people get sick. When you're hungry too, there's no joy at all. People just can't cope then, little babes, old folks, anybody. But you asked me about the rain – yes, I do miss the rain, and I miss the green of the grass and the trees, everything here is brown and yellow, and when it's green it's so bright it looks wrong. I know it's not always like this Frank, but I wouldn't care if I never saw another snake or sandfly or wasp, or those jellyfish, or spiders or frogs or bats.”

 “That's your question answered – what about mine?”

 “Sorry, what was the question again?”

 The line twitched and Mary yelped with delight. All the fish here were good, but the flathead was her favourite. She kept a steady pressure on as she reeled in the line, landing a fine looking specimen.

  “There's our dinner Frank. Think we should find him some company?” as she unhooked it and tossed it in the pail.

  “What were we talking about? There was something. Ah, yes, my question. Now, I can't remember. Oh yes – the girl in Parish, the Irish one, the one that died.”

 Ira was surprised. Mary's words seemed playful and light, but he sensed a new note. She had never seemed jealous before, but now she seemed aggressive and challenging.

  “What about her?”

  “Did you love her?”

 This was unusually blunt for Mary, and Ira didn't know what to make of it.

 “I wouldn't have thought so at the time, but I think now I did.”  

  “Didn't do her much good then did it? And Esmeralda? No don't answer – I know you did.”

 Now he was really taken aback and didn't know what to make of it.  He lowered his line and tied it to a branch. Turning to Mary, he took her line, and at the same time held her hand.

  “Do you love me Frank?” she asked.

 “How could you ever doubt it?” He was puzzled. “ Of course I do. What is it that makes you ask?”

  “Nothing Frank. You just have to say it sometimes. Especially when I'm having a baby.”

 A  thoughtful Ira was moved to write. The war was over, he knew, but he was embarked on a new life. He had no way of knowing his status in the new dispensation. But he thought now of his mother. How had she coped in the primitive conditions of Parish in the 1820s? How had Sylvanus looked after her? He had to admit, he seemed to have done so, but the other three wives?

  He sat down to write, and composed two letters which he bundled together, sending them to Asahel, for him to pass on to Frances.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

A LETTER HOME

“Dear Mother” the letter read “I think of you often and in my own way pray for you. That is if prayer is what I think it is. I am often exhausted, but I sleep the sleep of a hard-working and honest man. I have made good money here, and I can turn my hand to many things. The Army taught me to sew cook carpenter and many other things besides. It has been very useful where I am because there are many people without these skills. And now I must tell you my real news and that is that I am married and am very happy. She is Mary Griffin and she is the dearest wife and sweetheart a man could have. We will have a child soon and start our own family. Now the war is really over I can tell you that I am in Australia about as far away as I can get I suppose. It is a fine country and will be free of the English soon I think. It is such a relief not to have slaves here, but white men doing their own work. It doesn't seem to kill anyone. There are some who would have slaves if they could. People are not very different anywhere. I will tell you all that happens, and my dearest wish is to visit you with my Mary who I am sure you would like. I believe even father would like Mary, but possibly it is a mercy that they never will meet. All my love to you mother and I hope the little goats are behaving well for you.

Your loving son........I almost forgot to tell you, here I am known to one and all as Frank Williams, the cooper, in Mackay Queensland. I cannot be known by any other name now.

 

 

A LETTER TO ASAHEL

The Cooperage                                                                                      Mackay, Queensland                                                                                               July 18

 Dear Asa

I hope this letter finds you and your family all well. I have just written to mother and she will tell you all. I have enjoyed our talks and wish we could talk some more. But this is the only way to do it. Do you remember the treasure trove of father's when he died? I am thinking about those items a lot and I would be very pleased if you could tell me all about them. Any little thing would be good. How old do people think these things are and how big are they and what were they used for and what was the strange language? Of course I would like to know what you make of these things yourself. Our cousin Titus' son, young Titus, is knowledgeable in these matters. Last I heard he was off with Farragut in the Navy. I hope he will be all right. Another person who might have connections in these matters is our old friend Sam Clemens. I have found out he is writing as Mark Twain, but I don't suppose you have heard of him. He is smart and he writes well even if Titus doesn't think so.  I would dearly like to hear from you, and to hear all your thoughts and old stories. You can write to me at the address given. I am Frank Williams of course. I'm sure you can see how I got that name.

Your affectionate brother

Frank.  

LLEWELLYN

 The months sped up, and Mary slowed down. Winter was a relief as the humidity evaporated. The air was clear and mild and she was happy to while away the time in the cooperage or the sewing group. Ira's work was proceeding well, and he found new energy for his work. He had now built up a network of suppliers, with wood coming in from depots on the roads north and south. He was now having it ready-sawn into staves, saving much heavy work.    

 It was in August that baby Llewellyn was born. They both liked the name, and it went well with the Welsh surname. Ira was his own master, and head of his little family. Mary glowed with health and motherhood, while their baby boy was sheer delight. He waxed fat and they were both thrilled and amused to have their own native-born true Australian. By the time Summer arrived he had taken on his own special personality and was striving to gain attention any way he could. He was a constant source of entertainment and fun apart from teething troubles and childhood illnesses. They were eager to expand their family and it was not long before Mary was pregnant again. This time, she was not comfortable at all, and at the end of her pregnancy, she delivered a still-born boy. They grieved for the lost child, then got on with their lives as best they could, but the little brother they had thought to provide for Llewellyn cast a long shadow for a tiny body.

  The year 1870 broke, and with it came frightening news. The rains had been long and severe, and the water lay round in vast sheets. The puddles were noisome, and didn't improve as they evaporated in the ensuing sun. One by one, the townsfolk sickened. Typhoid had struck, and the toll was grim. But the family was untouched and while grieving for friends and neighbours, uttered silent prayers for their deliverance. Protests rose from the populace, desperate for better roads and sanitation in the growing town. They had already been successful in having the town declared a municipality, but needed to produce more action to improve their quality of living.

 During the second pregnancy they had wondered how Llewellyn, their pride and joy, would cope with competition? Well, there was only one way to find out, and again Mary fell pregnant. Arthur Francis was born in early 1870 and Llewellyn seemed to appreciate his baby brother greatly. He was eighteen months old and loved all living creatures. – dogs, cats, fish, birds and babies were constant sources of delight for him. As Mary brought baby Arthur through the perils of infancy, Llewellyn became a little man, playing with his little wooden hammer in the cooperage, discussing the uselessness of babies and singing the songs his mother had taught him. It was hard for his parents to know where to bestow their affection, and they thought they were fortunate people indeed.

  The Winter of 1870 provided some respite and Llewellyn's second birthday passed happily. Another Summer loomed. The weather seemed hotter than usual. Mary never ever got quite used to the crawling and flying things that turned up on beds and in clothes. Frogs she had grown to tolerate, while snakes and lizards  she steered clear of. But this year, they seemed to be everywhere and she found the weather more trying than usual. Ira received a letter. It was not from his mother, and he was bitterly disappointed. He didn't tell Mary about it, and hid it away in the cooperage.  

 Llewellyn seemed at first to be a bit off colour. He was out of sorts and listless, then distressed by a sore throat. Before long it was clear he was in trouble. In a couple of days he was struggling to breathe, and his poor little face was contorted with the pain and the effort. Mary prayed, rocked the poor little boy, held his hand and bathed his forehead. Ira kept baby Arthur well away from his brother lest he should also contract the disease. They knew by now it was diptheria. After a long and sleepless second night, Llewellyn gave up the struggle, and died in his broken-hearted parents' arms.

  It was a hot and sultry day when they consigned his little body to the earth. All was a dream and in his grief Ira hardly knew how to comfort Mary or to tell baby Arthur that his big brother would not be returning. He knew that it happened all over the world, that they were not alone. But he did feel utterly alone in this faraway place. Suddenly the trees, the grass, the people and animals looked alien and he asked himself what on earth were they doing here. Was it a mistake to have come? Would it have happened back home? He knew full well that it did happen. There was no-one to blame – it just happened. He didn't know how anyone could suffer more, till he looked at Mary and knew he had to put his pain behind him for her sake.

 Fearful for the baby now and for their sanity should he sicken, their lives were fraught. Day by day he watched his wife and child for any sign of illness. Mary wept bitterly for hours and he could do nothing to console her. Each day was a struggle to complete, and the nights were endless.  Ira was worried that this atmosphere was unhealthy for baby Arthur, and ttried to talk to Mary about it, but any mention of Llewellyn only triggered grief and remorse unbearable. Llewellyn's clothes and bed-things and soft toys had been destroyed to prevent further infection, and with them seemed to go Mary's will to live.

  At this time, Bridget moved in. In her sisterly way, she just got on with life and carried Mary with her. Household tasks flowed smoothly and she sat with Mary chatting and singing, although there was no response.   

 Mary spent long days and nights in a world of her own. People passed by, called in, left flowers and cards, but she seemed not to see them. It went on so long that it seemed her reason had left her. She spoke to no-one, went to Church sometimes, where she sat silent, for an age, and walked back in a trance.

 One morning Ira woke to find her gone. He hadn't heard her leave, but found her outside, preparing to dig. She had the spade ready, and had marked out a good-sized circle. “I thought I'd plant a tree, and when it grew I would always think of Llewellyn” she said in a matter-of-fact voice.

 “Of course” he answered. “Good idea. Would you like me to help dig it?”

 “Yes. Shall I make us some tea?”

  He would have drunk ditchwater so relieved was he to be speaking again but the tea seemed a better idea. It was not long before Arthur emerged, and the three had a combined breakfast and tree-planting ceremony.

  With Arthur now walking, Ira took to strolling with him through the streets which were now being graded and drained, and down to the river, where bridge work was starting. They enjoyed their first fishing expeditions and building and painting his first wooden toys. Things got better as the year progressed, but Mary was not the same. Neither was he, Ira reflected. He noticed that both of them avoided the cemetery area, so painful was the association. Reports of other childrens' demise through the colony were fresh and frightening reminders of the precariousness of life, and they worked on with an ominous shadow over their shoulder. Mary could not bear to have Llewellyn's name mentioned and baby Arthur could not have told anyone if he'd ever had a brother. Another Winter and another Spring, and Ira was worried for them all. The place felt diseased and their lives were poisoned by the sadness. Suddenly, everything primitive that he had put up with seemed hateful, and he longed to be in a new place, one that might give Mary new hope. He had always enjoyed telling her about America, and she had always been a willing listener. He went to his desk and retrieved a letter he'd had for the best part of a year. He unfolded it and read it yet again.

 January 1871

Dear Ira

im shure its you what ar you doing up ther don't tell me i know. The captin got one of those dinky little barels you make soons I saw it i noo it was yours i show him yor mark on the inside hav you still got that thing he says sines his work like an artist  i ask him wer it came from  he says chap in Mackay werever that is he nows dam wel of corse.  Carnt kepe away from the coton can you  or is it all shuger now  corse it is thats were youd be getting yor bred and buter  im going back to settle down   i now someone in California and he ses hele sell me sum land to farm ther Interested? I'm on the Hope of the brave its a good ship   it is in queensland and fiji   I think you now wat I am doing if you want to rite   ar you maried   i  hope so   it was always yor gratest wish   i was but im not now  i think that part of it was her gratest wish   rite if you remember how and you havent got spered by the saviges

 Brew

  Ira thought long and hard. He didn't really want to leave, for he felt the place had a future. He now enjoyed being a cooper. Being his own boss might be a luxury but it was also a way of life now for him and he didn't want to change it. But the place was killing Mary, and her family's hatred of the English had, for the moment at least, poisoned her attitude toward Australia and Queensland. As for Brew, he had known that his friend had little education, but to have seen his handiwork was a shock nevertheless. And it was a shock to realise that Brew was on one of the most notorious blackbirding ships. Brew's conscience was obviously not becoming any more acute, for it was clear that the illegal trade in islander labour provided him with his current employment. He didn't feel ready to tell Mary about this part of the situation.   

 He broached the subject, and found her wary but willing.

 “It's a big country Mary. Australia's big, but America has rivers and mountains that don't exist here. That means water and life – farming and ranching. It can be a fine life. I've talked to plenty of people who've done well.”

 “I don't know if I've got the heart Frank. Besides, what could it mean if you go back? Would you be in trouble?”

 “Frank Williams is an innocent man – on the other hand, that Ira...”

 She cut him off. “Shhhh! It's bad luck. Don't say it. Arthur might hear it.”

 “Well I suppose he will one day. Won't he get a surprise?”

 “Yes, but don't be tempting fate Frank. All in good time.”

 At least she seemed thoughtful – and it was only a few days before she broached the subject again.

 “Do you really think it's possible Frank.? Where would we go?”

 “It's California Mary.”

 “Oh Frank, not the blessed gold again. It's a a fool's game.”

 “Well, it sure can be. But it's a single man's game and it's all right, I wouldn't dream of it. It's farming – good country – good climate and good future.”

  “A good place to bring up two children?”

 Ira couldn't believe his ears. But it was true. Mary was pregnant again, and they were both frightened. Once the California idea took hold though, Mary ran with it. The cooperage was well-established, and he didn't much care who managed it while he was away.

 

 

 

CALIFORNIA

 It was early in 1872 that two-year old Arthur travelled with his parents and baby sister Mary to Brisbane, boarding for the long journey to California. Already the ships of the day were faster, more powerful and reliable. The journey was novel, and the sea air was pleasant while Arthur travelled well with plenty of bored passengers to entertain and distract him. But even when Mary gazed toward the stern of the vessel, baby Mary in her arms, Ira knew she was looking back for the one she had left behind. For his own part, he could not believe how excited he was to be headed back to America although he took pains to preserve a calm demeanour.

 The ocean was vast – he knew that of course, but there was so much time to reflect and wonder, that he felt smaller by the day. Only with land would he recover his sense of self, he felt, and eagerly anticipated the moment when he could begin his new life. Their ship crawled across the immensity of the Pacific Ocean like some stranded water beetle, and it seemed fortuitous only that it should arrive at any speck of land in that watery abyss, but it was not too long before the magnificent mountains of Hawaii loomed on the horizon, every man, woman and child straining to discern the shoreline under the haze and mist. It wasn't until the vessel had almost docked that Mary said

  “Ah, Frank! Look! The golden sands of Hawaii” and that day he had met Titus, all of, what was it, twenty years ago, flooded back. A conversation with his mother also flooded back, as well as his recollections of his cousin, Titus's father, the famous Titus Coan. Was he still here, was he still active? Was his wife, Fidelia, alive? Did they see young Titus (he also would be thirty-six now) and their other children? Would he be able to visit?

  He made his way through the street life of Honolulu looking for a Church or Chapel which might have information, but his eye was immediately taken by the Cathedral of Our Lady of Peace, a fine-looking Church built from coral blocks. He made his way round to the garden courtyard at the rear of the Church proper. Here he found his clerics, albeit of the wrong denomination.

  “Good morning gentlemen, I hope I do not disturb you.” He patently did disturb them, as they were enjoying a civilised lunch. They looked suspiciously at him though they spoke courteously in strong French accents.

  “I am hoping to locate a gentleman who may be known to you?”

 Indeed they were anxious to help, if he would divulge the name of the gentleman.

 “He is Mr. Titus Coan and has resided here for many years.”

 They exchanged looks and said yes, indeed, the gentleman was very well known to a great many people. They looked again at him, and Ira guessed that they now saw a Protestant Yankee. Courteous they remained, as well as wary, and formal. What exactly did he wish to know?

 “He and I are related, and if it is possible I would like to call on him before my ship sails.” A couple more looks seemed to fly, and Ira added “I hope that he is not the sort of man who would be offended at my having married a Catholic girl in a Catholic Church.” The information positively flowed. So did some fine brandy.

 Titus's  parish was a couple of hundred miles away in Hilo, so a journey would be out of the question. Titus himself had been away in America in the previous year where he had undertaken extensive speaking tours and engagements – the man's energy was legendary. Unfortunately Mrs. Coan had not improved in health and was ailing at the present time – in fact, was not expected to live much longer. She too, for all her misguided and incorrect beliefs, had done a power of practical good work in Hawaii. There was no denying that the Coans were fine people, and talented ones, it was just a pity...and the pity of it was left unsaid as another glass, and a bowl of fruit, was offered and accepted.

  Had young Titus reacted against his upbringing, as he himself had reacted against Sylvanus' religiosity, Ira wondered. From the sound of it, Titus Coan's ministry was longer on practicality and commonsense than it was on ritual and dogma. Could there be anything so wrong with that? Or did people really want something else?

 Again their craft clove the bright blue ocean pointing ever eastwards, California bound, across the ocean least traversed by man in his long history. By now, all longed to be ashore and doing.

 Every city is different, thought Ira a couple of weeks later, as they left the wharf at San Francisco. Already the city was looking more respectable as the days of gold receded and the life of a modern trading town took its place. The population looked mixed, with many more Chinese than he had been aware of anywhere before. He set about immediately looking for Brew by frequenting the Irish hotels and it was not long before he struck pay dirt. Yes, they knew such a man, who was enquiring? An old friend. “What sort of old friend.” What a suspicious world we live in, thought Ira again. Priests or publicans, it was all the same. And it was the same problem. Did they think he was an undercover Northerner trying to root out Fenians?

 “An old Army friend.”

 “What sort of old Army friend, exactly now?”

 “A special friend, who has been through trying times together.”

 “Are you one of the three?”

 “Yes.”

 “What escaped?”

 Again the floodgates opened and a river of information flowed. It became a lot easier. Brew was now a gentleman farmer and was doing very well thank you, quite a character in fact. How long he would do it for was yet to be known, but it all looked promising indeed, and he would be in town in a day or two.  Where should he send him when he called? Ira named his hotel and departed.

  It was two days later that Brew made contact and Mary was at first delighted to see the affection that existed between the two men. Brew, for his part, was moved to dance and sing a great deal, which Mary took to be a very good sign, and the sort of thing that had always passed for good breeding in Ennistimon, County Clare. Ira didn't take things so far, but suddenly looked years younger, more boyish and carefree, which, Mary reflected, was generally the province of unmarried childless men like Brew.

  Ira was pleased to see the rapport between Mary and Brew, but was less pleased to see the casual manner in which Brew looked Mary over. Brew had relished his freedom, but whereas Ira looked trim and fit, Brew had allowed his tall spare frame to fill out considerably, and had become somewhat florid, though still only thirty-six or so. But his high spirits and good humour were infectious-for a while.   

 

 

WATSONVILLE

 The plan: an arrangement had been arrived at whereby Ira would buy a hundred and sixty acres of land from one Sam Godwin, who had received said land from the Government in gratitude for his services in the earlier war against Mexico. Sam had no use for the land as he wasn't in the way of farming, in fact he wasn't really in the way of doing much at all. Ira, or rather Frank, would develop the land, then make a formal application to purchase the land from Sam.

  Ira was grateful to Brew for the idea, but soon realised that Brew himself had little respect for the life of a hard-working farmer. He blew in from time to time for a game of cards, a couple of nights respite from whatever activities were currently exhausting him, and some home cooking.        

 The rolling, sun-soaked sweep of land outside Watsonville looked promising indeed. They were both pleased to make a new start, and before long a small cabin turned into a decent-sized cottage surrounded by sheds, workshops, coops and barn. Animals began to thrive, and newly planted fruit trees began to yield. The home garden was prolific, and in the golden glow another child was born. In 1874 Kate arrived, then the land was formally ceded to “Frank Williams”. It was duly attested that he was a native-born American, born in New York State. Their neighbours were other small farmers from every part of the country, as well as Chinese, Croatians,  Portuguese, a goodly representation of old Mexicans and Spanish and others . In 1876 the railway arrived, linking Watsonville with San Francisco. Charlie's arrival completed the family in 1877. Charlie was christened Carlos at the little Catholic Church,  hardly in keeping with the supposed Welsh heritage of Frank Williams, but perfectly normal in this new society. The elevated hillsides were healthy and sunny, free from the enervating humidity that could afflict Queensland. The children attended the local school and were happy little Americans, replete with a new America accent.  

 With the railroad connecting them to San Francisco, the grain was easy to move. The fruit was doing better all the time as well. With every year the future of the region looked more and more secure.   

 Brew still visited, but Mary was, by now, contemptuous of his flirtatious chat, and suspicious of his manner of living. In vain did Ira protest the honour of the young Brew, his old friend and companion in distress. But even Ira could not ignore the telltale signs of a life of debauchery, and worse. He was still a good-looking single man, and had no trouble acquiring a succession of lady friends, who occasionally bore the marks of violence.

 “Oi truly envy ye, Oira, y're a locky man with that foine Mary.”

 “Yes, I suppose I am. Think you'll take that step? Or are you not yet ready for such a move? It's all you could think about once.”

 “Tell yez the trut Oira, Oi b'lave it was d'lovin Oi was tinkin about. Marryin' don't seem t'come into it loike, if y'know what I mane.”                                   

 “Well, that's honest I suppose. Have you got someone special at the moment?”

 Brew looked surprised, then exploded with laughter.  

  “Special? What's special? Jaysus Oira, dey're all d'same f'r Chrisake.”

  “Why do you need a new one all the time then?”                                 

 “Oi'd say dat's my business. F'r Chrisake, y'r a preacher loike y'r pappy.”

 “Who's your lady at the moment?”       

  Brew looked uncomfortable and murmured something that sounded like “Inez.” He sat up straighter, and muttered defiantly but indistinctly, for the drink was affecting him again, something about “you” and “graser wenches” and Ira suddenly felt overwhelmed by a cold sadness.

  Mary resented Brew's visits and Ira discouraged them, but Brew appeared not to notice. His high spirits had degenerated into coarseness, and the unfortunate Inez was ill-treated. Ira and Mary feared for her safety and found his company distasteful, till Ira at last had to tell Brew that he was no longer welcome. Brew was flabbergasted.

 “Oira, me old mate. Y'were me pal out in d'desert poppin' off dem injuns loike sittin ducks.”

 “No we didn't. We just did what we had to do – we patrolled and retrieved stolen horses, and there were a couple of incidents.”

 But Brew took no notice. He was deep into a well-practiced recitation of daring deeds on the frontier.

  “You've changed Brew – maybe we all have. But it's best you don't come here anymore.”

 Now the penny dropped. Brew couldn't believe his ears.

 “Why?” he demanded now, truculently.

 Ira breathed deeply. “I don't like your attitude to women”

 “But I tink d'world 'v Mary.”

 “Of course you do. She's my wife. She looks after us, she gives you lovely meals, she speaks your language, why wouldn't you like her? You know what I'm talking about – you've changed. I'm not talking about Mary. Yes, you were good out West, but we didn't dream it would come to this. Remember old Brasher?”

 “Brasher the basher” immediately responded Brew. And “Ah now Oira, y'wouldn't class me with that low-life would'je?”

 “I would.”

 And with that, Brew stood, put on his hat and walked out of their lives.

Mary and Ira were saddened, but not surprised, when they read of the death of the demise of the ill-treated Inez, and the subsequent arrest of their old friend.     

       1883

 Friday morning, and Ira was feeling pretty pleased with himself. The children were all at school, and doing well. The soil here was kind and so was the climate. The future looked rosy, and it was possible to make real plans. The railroad was a mixed blessing, for while it despatched his grains and fruits quickly, he would have to pay a sizeable tax, including on his non-productive land. That could be onerous, but could be offset by the rising land value.

 He reflected on all this as he drove the horses into town. As he rode, something nagged at his consciousness. Suddenly, he had it! A dream! He'd dreamt that he was driving a magnificent team of horses, beautifully groomed and gleaming. His mother sat beside him, handsomely got up in a simple but beautiful dress, set off by a jet necklace. The leathers of his reins were supple and lightly oiled, and they sat together in companionable silence. As they drove, he saw something on the road ahead. It was a watch, a fine piece of work from the look of it, but he felt he didn't have the time to stop and pick it up. Soon, they arrived at  her place, where he saw his mother to the house and turned the horses in. He set off back along the road, stopping to search for the beautiful watch. It was nowhere to be seen.

 He had no doubt of the meaning of this dream. Clear as a bell it seemed to say “If you value your mother's company, you will make the time for it.”

 Still pondering this revelation, he arrived in Main Street to check the mail.

  “Mornin Frank.” It was Milos from a neighbouring farm. “Don't need to ask you what you're doing in town.”

 “Hello Milos. Fine singers your kids – we enjoyed the concert. Are you coming to the dance tomorrow?”

 “Thanks Frank – wouldn't miss it-. You have to come to ours too.”

 “Wouldn't miss it. Must check the mail – see you there.”

 There was a pleasant bustle in the town, and he knew most people and they knew him. They were a mixed bunch, some Slavs as well as old  Mexican families, even a few Chinese and some Negroes. They had their own little school as well as some at the local. It suited Ira well.

       He stepped into the cool interior of the telegraph office. “Morning Frank – telegram for you. Came in some hours ago.”

  Alarmed, Frank took the paper, wondering if his mother had suddenly ailed. But no, it was an international. It read

 “dennis jr died last week biddy sick things bad stop can you help stop letter coming dennis ”

 Ira's world closed in around him. The sunny fields of Watsonville dimmed in the gloom of his thoughts. He knew how much they owed to Biddy after Llewellyn's death. Now it was their turn to help. He had no doubt what Mary's response would be, and began already to plan the journey. Even as he did, he had a vision of his mother arriving in Parish over sixty years before, ready to take up her duty of care with the older Coan children, ready at the same time to produce six of her own, the youngest of whom was now known by her own name. He drove back thoughtfully, taking the horses at an easy pace.

 As he drove into the yard, Mary came out to greet him. He could tell she already knew something; the Irish were like that, especially the women.

 They would wait for the letter, preparing in the meanwhile for the journey, and settling the farm as well as could be managed. Milos would probably be happy to share farm the land, remitting a percentage to Frank Williams. By the time they got back the crisis could well be over and their efforts in vain. But Mary had little doubt that she would be needed. Friends they had, but family was another thing, and far away from the Old Country you measured family blood like liquid gold.   

 “I'm sorry Frank, but I have to be there. You know that don't you?” she murmured, over coffee. He nodded and managed “It's alright – I don't mind.”

 “This is your country isn't it Frank? I know you love it and so do I. But you know what they say – home is where the heart is. If it weren't for Biddy Frank, I wouldn't be here, I'd be six feet under with Llewellyn.We don't have to go forever. We could be back here next year, you never know.”

 “Mary, I'm happy if you're happy.” And as he said this, he suddenly resolved on a course of action. That afternoon saw him back at the telegraph office and the Bank.

  The following month saw an 80 year-lady making the trip of her life. Never having traveled out of her home state before she was an amusing companion for her step-son Asahel, whom Ira had constrained as escort. Truth to tell, Ira was mildly shocked when he collected them from the train at San Francisco. His own flesh and blood were two quaint and anachronistic figures amid the cheerful bustle of the modern Californian city. They stood, dignified and self-sufficient, dwarfed by the power and energy of the mighty locomotive that had hauled them from San Frncisco.  They might have stepped straight out of the fifties in their plain and simple garb that drew curious glances from many. At eighty, his mother radiated a calm inner energy, while Asahel, now seventy, was eminently good-humoured, as ever. Nevertheless, it was clear that while his mind was still active, his physical self was noticeably reduced – it was indeed a long journey that he had called them on, reflected Ira.

 The hotel overnight was a necessary part of the journey, for Frances didn't have a lot to say at first. She turned in early, while Ira and Asahel talked, but Ira found Asahel, too, drained by the journey.

  A sound sleep and a good breakfast later, things were different, and the trio set off in buoyant mood for Watsonville where they took a carriage to the farm, where the Williams family waited. It was a strange encounter. Frances, in her odd and somewhat arch way, kept her counsel while Asahel regaled the children with preposterous stories and games. Mary attended her mother-in-law warily, completely at a loss in dealing with her undemonstrative and self-contained personality.

  The following day, Ira took his mother to meet the animals, where she soon appeared at home. She relaxed visibly as she spoke to the horses and mules and was entranced by the sweep of the golden grasses running down the hillside to the home orchard. Behind her towered a wall of magnificent redwoods guarding the farm like ancient sentinels. She was happy to sit and contemplate the scene indefinitely, and Ira began to wonder if his mother's brain was slowing.

  “Ours is a magnificent country son.”

 Ira nodded thoughtfully. It was impossible to deny, he thought.

  “Did you actually enjoy the journey mother?”

 “No, I can't say I did. But I am happy I did it and thank you for making it happen.” Another pause, of the companionable sort thay always used to enjoy and she added “Don't get me wrong. It was very exciting. And I have crossed the mountains, and prairies and rivers that have taken so many lives, and not so long ago either. The people are so interesting. The nature is so wild. I believe I am very lucky. But you know, son, it will be my last trip. I don't believe I have another one in me.”

 “Let's just recover from this one first mother.”

 “Tell me son – just where do you think you'll end up?”

 “Hard to say. I like it here. I'm an American. This Valley has a future. You can see how good the soil is, you could hardly fail. And I like all the different folks here, every color of the rainbow, not just the same old black white, master slave, English Irish sort of world we always seem to have.”

 “You haven't thought of coming home?”

 “Well, I've thought of it, of course, but I'm not in love with the cold. I don't care if I never see snow again. But even if I wanted to, do you think it would be possible?”

 “No, I don't think so” she answered bluntly. “You wouldn't enjoy your reputation. As far as people up there are concerned, you went away and never came back. Lots of boys like that. What's your official status?”

 “I presume I'm still listed as a deserter.”

 “Lots of them have been pardoned.”

 “It doesn't change anything for me. I would have to wear the label, all our folks would know. I couldn't bear it, and I wouldn't want to bring my children up with it.”

 “Do you regret it?”

 “No. I only regret that it was necessary. I think back, and I think I would do it again. You know, life was hard enough in the forts, I never told you all the goings on there. But at least we were achieving something. I ended up a prisoner because of the treachery of my so-called superiors. And their masters in Washington were no better, playing with our lives like  pawns. Do you really think all those nice Union soldiers were hell-bent on freeing the darkies? I can tell you that the enemy could never have made me quit...,” and he paused to collect his thoughts, adding “It took our friends in New York a few months to do that.”

 Frances gazed off into the azure distance.

 “What was it all about then son?”

  “Money – and power. And more money.”

 “Do you think America is a better place now son?”

 “No I don't. I think it's a very sad place. Not surprising really when hundreds of thousands of her boys have killed each other. Do we just forget them, put it in the past? Politicians, preachers, writers, they all urged us on in the name of God, from the safety of the city. Were they the ones who died?”

 “Abraham Lincoln did.”

 “I didn't cry. But there were other times I did. You must have seen some of the boys....” He left the thought unfinished while Frances nodded.

 “It's ordinary people that made me mad. These maniacs who rule us, make our laws, send us to war, tell us to kill each other. They have only as much power as fools will allow them.”

 “What does Mary want? I was about to say she is very sweet, but it doesn't seem to be the right word. She has strong feelings, doesn't she?”

 “She is bitter, mother, about her childhood. She saw too much death back in Ireland, and she detests everything English. It's sometimes awkward, because Australia must be like the U.S. a hundred years ago. So she has lost her country, but I don't want to lose mine. She has to go back to look after Biddy of course, and I'll support her. Mary'd never have pulled through after we lost Llewellyn without Biddy. But I think we'll be back.”

 “It's a big move. After my journey, I can't bear to think of you going over the sea so far. What do you really think of Australia? Could it be like America?”

 “They're a rough lot really, but pretty good-hearted. I'm not sorry the kids have gone to school here. Oh, I think Australia will be just fine in time. England will let it go soon. Seems they learned a lesson there somewhere. Saves a lot of bodies. I'm getting back on my old hobby-horse again, aren't I? Speaking of which, we'd better get on our hobby-horses back to the house.”

   The children were bemused to have a grandmother, but really didn't know what to make of this one. The only real question on their minds was “What was Poppa like when he was young?” And she would always answer “Just like you.”

  “But that's what you say to all of us. He couldn't be like all of us, could he?”

 “Well, it's possible. You're all like your him aren't you?”

 The logic of this rather escaped them, and they retired in bafflement. But Arthur persisted. “But really, what was he like? What things did he say. What did he want to be when he grew up?”

 This sent Frances into a reverie which was of no use to Arthur, but Asahel saved the day, saying

  “I was there when he arrived. He was the baby of the family.” This was more like it, and Arthur's face lit up with anticipation. He motioned to Mary to join him, and soon all four of them were crowded round Asahel, much to that man's great pleasure.

 “Who's the baby here I wonder” he went on, looking at Charlie. “Why, it's young Charlie of course. Were you there when he was born?” he asked of the other three.

 “He was born in there” they chorused, pointing to the parlour.

  “Was he indeed” rejoined Asahel, standing and tip-toeing across the room to peep into the  parlour. “I'm just making sure no-one's left any more babies in there. No – all clear.” Much merriment.

 “Well, your father. When he was born, he was a fine singer. All day and all night he sang in his squeaky little voice. It was a terrible song, and we couldn't understand the words. But a wise old Indian made a special device for translating the speech of babies. It was made of the vocal cords of the mighty, sacred buffalo, and when you waved it over the singing baby, it spoke in a beautiful deep voice, and when we waved it over baby I – , er, baby Frank, it said (and he paused for effect, intoning gravely) “I'm hungry, I'm hungry, I'm hungry.”

 “What else was he like?” came the chorus. Mary had joined them now, and was enjoying the performance.

 “Well, in those days, the land was wild, and we would hear the hoot of the owl, the howl of the wolf and even the screech of the panther” (lunging at them with claw-hands extended) “so we had to be careful going out in the woods. Your father loved to run away into the woods so we were always having to chain him up with the dogs and horses. He liked talking to them you know. But one day, we decided to go for a fishing expedition. Your grandfather, Sylvanus – ” and here he was interrupted by giggles. “It was quite a normal name in those days, just like Charlie and Arthur and Mary and Kate are now – or Asahel of course.” More laughter. “No doubt you have many friends by the name of Asahel. It means very kind and wise and intelligent man who likes to tell stories. As I was saying, your Grandfather, Sylvanus and his friend Judge Henry Reynolds, wanted to go fishing, and they took young Frank and his big brother William along.”

 “Do we have an uncle Willliam?”

 “Why yes. Now where did I put him? (rummaging in pocket). “He's very small you know. Well, off through the trackless forest we went, following the trail of marked trees, to find our way to Co – , er, Williams Pond, a fine fishing spot. There we gathered brushwood to sleep on at night. We found the canoe, stashed away in the trees, but the old men thought it would be too dangerous to all go in the boat. What do you think of that? Yes, we were disappointed, and had to fish from the shore, sitting on an old tree that had tumbled half into the water. But no sooner did we drop in a line, than we felt a bite, and out they came one after the other. We must have stumbled on a fish nursery, for when the old men returned after some hours with their measly seven fish, we had eighty fellows lined up along the log. Can you imagine how they felt, beaten by the little fellows on the shore? That night we sat around the camp fire with full bellies when suddenly, with a growl, an enormous bear rushed out of the forest after the fish. Judge Henry grabbed a stick from the fire and chased Bruin back into the forest. And that's just one of the adventures your father had.”

 Ira, listening now from the next room, knew that he had experienced no such adventure, but that it was a re-working of an old story, quite true, in which the boyish protagonists were Asahel and his older step-brother Milo. The pond in question was the old Coan Pond, named after the family and only a few miles from Parish.

 “Thank you Asa. You haven't lost your touch I see.”

 “Oh, well yes, thanks, uh, Frank. You know me. I suppose I just like telling stories, and by good fortune children like to hear them.” His tone was quiet and reflective. “ I like to hear them too by the way, there are all sorts of mysteries in life to discover. Look what's happening around us with the telegraph, and now the telephone, we'll have horseless carriages, and soon we'll be flying. There's no limit is there? I'm just sorry I won't be around for ever to see the story unfold.”

 As they spoke, Ira became aware of someone rummaging through the house. Mary was seeing the children off to bed, so it wasn't her. He rose and walked to the door, where, peering inside, he saw his mother checking behind pictures and books, and looking into cupboards and drawers.

  “What's she looking for?” he asked his half-brother.

 “You don't know?”

 “Yes, I think I do. But is it that important?”

 “Apparently.”

 He went back into the house, where his mother had now seated herself. She looked up at him, unabashed. “Where is it Ira?”

He ignored her breach of protocol – after all, it was the name she had given him.

 “What's that Mother?”

 “I think you know very well – your lady friend, the one you carved all those years ago. I felt sure you would still have her.” She paused a moment. “I suppose it would be mad to cart her round Texas, take her to prison, lug her the other side of the world, but I just always felt she was there protecting you.”

 Ira still didn't answer her, and after a moment's reflection she went on, in an abstracted, automatic way. “You were so young when you left us to go on the Canal. I knew very well the sort of people you meet there. You were the youngest, and we were pretty much alone. Your father missed you so much Ira. You got through that, then you had to go and join the Army. I always imagined she was there, protecting you for me. I used to pray to her and I told your father so, even though he thought it was idolatry.

 Your father died, and you know I don't talk much. But I talked to our little friends. I know people think I'm mad when I do that, but it makes me feel better. Animals never judge, Ira, they never judge. And I talked to her too –  a lot.  

 When the war broke out, I was happy that you would come home with the other federal troops, and when we heard you were captured, well, we didn't know what to expect. My own son, one of the first to lose the freedom we are supposed to hold so dear in our country. Then we waited, and waited. Nothing, just nothing. Then your letter.”

 She sighed, a shuddering long sigh, closing her eyes with the recollection.

  “I told everyone of course. And they were pleased for me of course. But the first thing I did was to light candles. I got a little statue of a woman. It wasn't the Virgin Mary.  I just couldn't do that. Sylvanus might be watching. I found an old carving in Utica. Not too young, not too old. Not a mother, not a sweetheart. More a guardian angel. I think I like guardian angels. And every day, I lit candles and I said prayers of thanks. I didn't care who saw me. I wanted to thank your guardian.”

 “She was there, mother.”

 Frances closed her eyes again, and her face became transfigured. Like a waxwork, she seemed to be frozen in a moment of ecstatic contemplation, a pose she held for so long that Ira became alarmed. He reached for her fingers and she awoke to the present with tears gently rolling.

  “I still have her with me. Do you want to see her? I hope you won't be disappointed. We've both had a tough time.”

 “It's not that really son. It's her being there with you. I just needed to know.”

 Ira had taken to wrapping Madonna in a lightly oiled flannel. Her travel scars had gradually taken on a fine patina, and her darkened wooden surface now positively gleamed. He had still not resolved the fate of his  protector as he proffered it for his Mother's inspection.

  More composed now, she held Madonna reverently, with an amused smile playing about the corners of her mouth.

  “Thank you, old girl” she said. “I'm happy” she said, handing her back. “I've got something to show you too, but I need Asa.”

 Ira duly fetched Asa, who received instruction from Frances. He returned a moment later with a small valise. Inside were objects wrapped in oilcloths. Out they came one by one, on to the table surface, inviting inspection and comment. Ira was fascinated but didn't know what it meant.

  Firstly, the most recognisable object was a religious statue in a dark wood, a fine intricate carving done a long time ago. He enjoyed holding it, feeling the balance and appreciating the fine tooling of the miniature drapery. Next came a row of apostle-type figures, wise men consulting. He was sure this work was by a different hand. Even more different was a larger collection of assorted wooden pieces. It seemed ancient and Ira found it puzzling. A beautifully shaped hind was there, and a couple of small fluted columns. But unmistakeable in this handful of mysteries was, of all things, a little Menorah. He knew it was Jewish, but had no idea of its significance. Some of the other pieces began to look a little different now, but as he scanned the collection, he knew that it had to be mostly Christian. What was the significance of the Jewish objects? He sensed Asahel's gaze as he went through piece by piece.  What did it mean? He looked up at Asahel to silently ask that question.

 “Remember you said to get in touch with young Titus? By the way, his father died last year. Well, I did. And he promised to find out  more when he was off on his travels in Europe.

  I can tell you that your name is not really Coan. It's Kuhn. And your great grandfather came from Germany. His name was Johannes Jerich Kuhn, and his two brothers were Peter and Abraham. Their parents died on the ship coming to New York in 1710. Peter and George gave rise to all the Coan cousins and relatives. Abraham must have been adopted out as a baby and was never heard of again.”

 “What about all this?”

 “This is all that's left of the stuff they brought with them. What do you think it is?”

 “It looks like a collection of memories, or souvenirs or some such. Similar themes, different makers, miniatures, easy to carry. How does it tie in?”

 “Don't you remember? I told you in the graveyard. We all do it, even father it seems. And we've been doing it for a long time. We know the family came from Worms, or thereabouts. Young Titus tells me there is a beautiful Synagogue there – no, I'm not telling you the family was Jewish. How would you feel about that if you were? No, my guess is that they weren't Christian woodcarvers or Jewish woodcarvers. They were professional woodcarvers. These appear to be portable souvenir pieces over the generations. It's taken me a while to get them together from different parts of the family.”

 “Did father have any inkling?”

 “I feel he must have, but certainly he would never have admitted it.”

 Ira looked at his Mother for reaction. “Well, they must have done something Ira” was all she said. “Oh dear, there I go again. Frank Williams, damn silly name.”

 “Actually it's your name Mother, didn't you realise?”

 And with a look of utter astonishment she exclaimed

  “So it is. Good Lord!”

  Before he went to bed that night, Ira took out Madonna, and set her up in a corner of the room. He sat back and regarded her with a kind of awe. How strange that this piece of wood had been his guardian through so much travail. Here she was, gently gleaming in the reflected candlelight, and presiding over the house like a Roman house god of old, or an Egyptian one if what they were now digging up were true. He was struck by how ancient and venerable she looked in this setting, and retired still smiling at her ownership of the family and the house.     

 Frances and Asahel soon departed, and the Williams family of Watsonville left the following day. As they left the farm it started to rain. Soon, while mighty engine of the Southern Pacific bore Frances and Asahel back to their northern homes,  the Chasely powered its way, an insignificant little water insect on the endless face of the mighty Pacific Ocean, back past the golden sands of Hawaii and the myriad island lands of Melanesia till once again, the new island continent of Australia was ready to receive them.  The passage back was faster again than their Californian voyage and Ira marvelled at the relative comfort compared to his first voyage of twenty one years earlier.

  “Not a bad life” he reflected as he sipped and smoked in the lounge. He gazed abstractedly at a bottle gracing a bar shelf –  quite a handsome vessel, brown in clour and gleaming in a familiar kind of way. What did it remind him of? A gathering thunderclap of realisation stole on him as he realised that Madonna still guarded their farm so many thousands of miles behind them. He suddenly felt small and naked, utterly dismayed, wondering what the hell he was doing in the middle of so much water with all his beloved.   

 The magnificent Sydney Harbour was as fine as anything they had seen, and back on land their adopted land's twang struck them as comical or painful, depending on their degree of sensitivity. Twelve years had marked real change, for here too, the railroad ruled, and the telegraph warned relatives of their arrival. With so much gold around, some municipal buildings were grand and substantial, while roads and drainage were much improved.

 And so it proved at Mackay. The little town had shrugged off its torpor, and proud and  ambitious buildings towered over their humble ancestors. One of these was the Old Cooperage. It was now somewhat of a landmark, but Ira decided immediately it would have to go.

 Biddy and Denis were much changed, and Dennis' Limerick laughter was subdued. Ira's resentment and resignation were banished in an instant when he saw them, and recalled Llewellyn's passing. At least they had had four other children to ease the pain. And the moment he saw Mary and Bridget's joy in reunion, he doubted his future in his homeland.

 The latest news from Watsonville was not good. The rain that had fallen on their departure had not yet eased, and crops and farms were washed away. Even the railroad line had been washed away. All that money, all that investment for nought. He might have to stay put a bit longer.

 The old cooperage looked small and shabby so he sold it and built a fine new one. The quality of his competition was poor and he had little doubt of re-establishing a thriving business. He had a larger house built for his  two young Americans and his two older Australians.  

 Arthur, now fourteen, considered himself American, and while the others happily attended school and got to know cousins and kin, he held on to his Watsonville heritage, giving him an abstracted air, in great contrast to his little brother Charlie, a ball of energy living in the here and now. Arthur found the town, despite its improvements, backward and disappointing. He considered the people uncouth and found too many of the buildings painfully primitive. But, month by month, the pace of change quickened as the colony ambled towards independence. How tame Arthur found it, to sidle towards a handover, rather than a glorious fight to wrest the future from the tyrant.

  Mary, for her part, and all her countrymen, longed for the day when they could divest themselves of any English overlordship. She found it hard to be courteous to any English person of a certain stamp, and they in turn found it puzzling that their good intentions were so coldly spurned. All over the country in fact, the divide held, and as the nation prepared its educational system for the future, the Irish Catholics elected to build their own system, at enormous personal cost. “It won't be secular, this Government system” they said. “It will be a de facto Protestant system, with Protestant values and ethics. And we have no choice, since the government has seen fit to remove assistance to Catholic schools.”  Ira thought all this could well be true, but that it was a great pity to so divide a nation.

 As he had feared, Mary slipped back into her family, the children adjusted happily to their Queensland home and business prospered. The sugar industry thrived and many of the South Sea Islanders they had known as kanakas were now absorbed into the community, their children attending the local schools. There were many more visitors, bringing news of the world, and the telegraph had done much to relieve the isolation of the bush. Arthur was the first to read the American papers and was keenly interested in the social and political thinking of the day. As the children grew, Ira noticed that they were little interested in the battles of the past, that they saw themselves not as Irish, American or English, but Australian – rather like Watsonville after all, he thought.

 Two years after their move, the Pajaro Valley was still awash, and many of their old neighbours were ruined by the two disastrous years of cataclysmic rain and flooding. By this time the family was entrenched in Queensland, and even Arthur deigned to count himself Australian. As the years passed, Watsonville receded, but Ira could not bring himself to cut himself off completely from his country. Nor could he bring himself to dispose of the property.

  Meanwhile, young Arthur could not forget his American roots. He eagerly analysed the news from the States, and graduated quickly from helping in the cooperage. Once or twice Ira found himself about to deliver a lecture from the precinct of the cooperage, and terrified lest he turn into his father, swiftly checked himself. It was no surprise to anyone when Arthur, aged twenty-two , departed Australian shores for those of California.  

 “My mother always wanted to see the golden sands of Hawaii, but Arthur's backtracking as fast as he can go.”

  They were sitting on the verandah in the balmy evening air. Just the way Sylvanus and Frances had discussed him all those years ago. Mary was answering in her soft brogue,

  “And my mother just wanted to go somewhere people were not dying. So neither of them got their wish. Do you think we did the right thing coming back?”

 “The decision was made for us. We were lucky to leave when we did, Mary? You don't have any regrets do you?”

 “You know very well I had to come back – regrets? Nothing I'd change, but there's  lot I miss. It's a great country. I don't know what'll come of it, but in a way, I'm pleased Arthur's going there to see for himself.”

  Letters and telegrams trickled back over the next couple of years, as they followed Arthur's progress round the State of California. One day, the letter for which Ira had secretly waited arrived. It read:

“Dear Mum and Dad,

I have finally visited our old home. I approached it with great trepidation, as I thought my childhood memories could be painful. I have already met up with my old pals from school days, or those of them who still live here. Many of the best and brightest have departed for more fertile fields, so to speak, but there are still many farming. Our old friend Milos is long gone, and it appears his business went bust in the rains following our departure. The place is as magnificent as ever, and the redwoods are simply splendid. I can't help thinking of it as my country, especially since it was my home.

And speaking of our home, you'll never guess! I went there of course, and there is a marvellous family there, very hospitable although English is not their first language. However, they managed well enough since my Croat is non-existent. I dined with them, and very good it all was, washed down with some fiery slivovitz which is their national drink. They keep it in one of your old kegs, which they seem very proud of. I showed them your old trademark inside, and they were all very excited, and they all went off and came back with the original – yes, your old Madonna that you told me about. I had no idea it was here, and I don't know if I ever saw it, only heard about it. Well, there was a tremendous discussion in Croat, I presume, some of it quite heated, and I think the gist of it was that they had grown awfully fond of it and felt it would bring them good luck and therefore didn't want to lose it. But some of them reasoned that it wasn't theirs, and that it rightfully belonged with its creator and his family. In fact, they took my visit to be a providential quest to return a sacred object. I know you will think that ridiculous, but I am sure that's how they saw it. So, I can tell you, she is with me now, well wrapped and ready for the journey home which will be quite soon. And I shall be happy to be home, and to tell you properly about my adventures. I have had some interesting talks with William Randolph Hearst whom I am sure you have heard about, and I am keen to start my own newspaper in Mackay.

 My love to you both, and to Mary, Kate and Charlie, also my friends and relations everywhere,

I am

Your loving son,

Arthur.

 Ira read the letter for the fifth time, again, in the evening glow on the verandah. He felt a smile of satisfaction rising and couldn't suppress a warm flush of satisfaction. How well this had worked out, how well he had read his son, how beautifully Providence had dealt this hand. Was it hubris to feel so pleased? Just this once, could he not feel just a little smug?

 Mary's voice broke his reverie. “Think you're clever don't you?”

 I'm getting on for sixty, thought Ira, and they still read me like a child. But before he could reflect any further, she'd seated herself beside him, reached up and kissed him warmly.

  “Well, you are.”

 Ira and Mary were pleased when Arthur's newspaper prospered, and pleased when Mary and Charles married and began their own families. Catherine, or Kika, was well-regarded as a dress-maker in town. They were pleased again when Australia gained its independence, but as the new century swept in, Ira saw that his ancient trade was being superseded by modern developments. Gradually, he wound down his business, which, truth to tell, was demanding and arduous. He felt peculiar to be idle and tried to meditate but didn't know how. Mary had her network of family and friends to occupy her, but soon lost her sister Biddy. The new century was seeing off the old generation fast.

  Arthur was a worry to them, for despite his journalistic flair, he was unsettled, flitting from one project to another. Mary put it down to unrequited love. At he age of 37, he suddenly married Cis O'Reilly, the daughter of Jack from the old pub. It could hardly be a romance they thought, but an alliance between two old friends. There was no doubt he was fond of her, and he was obviously devastated when she died of  a burst appendix only a few weeks later. He had become a sober fellow indeed, immersed in his work when he lost control of his newspaper in 1910. He ran a hotel for a while, and helped look after Mary who was frail. She died in 1913 with Ira by her side.

  Ira had much time to think. He had the news of the world at his fingertips, and he could see there would be war. He was grateful none of his children were of the right age for service, but thought over and over of the tragedy of his own country so fresh in his mind. It all seemed so far away here in Australia, but he could hear already the same sentiments and the same rallying cries. He was aware of the swell of antagonism coming from the Irish clergy. Was the Civil war just a rehearsal for this coming affair he wondered? He went into the Church and sat for a long time. The beeswax and the flowers were soothing and timeless. They transported him back over the years and he saw again the mountains of New Mexico, the snows of Parish, his mother's herb garden, the ebb and flow of life up and down the Erie. He closed his eyes and saw even more, the plod, plod, plod of the great dun-coloured camels, a man dragged to his death near Mexico, the bitter tent of Esmeralda's passing and sweet days with Maria. Closer to home now, and he heard his name called, but did it call “Frank”or “Ira”?

  He liked being Frank. It was his own choice in his own land, with his own woman and his own family. The voice called again, he was sure. He sat, aware that he might be hallucinating. He wasn't well, and knew it.

 Yes, he thought again, he liked being Frank. It had been a new beginning, and he had fitted in well. He'd kept his old life a secret, by and large, His mother and Asahel had gone, the family had dispersed to all parts of the States. No-one would ever know his real story. Arthur and Kika knew enough to pass on if anyone was interested. He made his way back home, where Kika and Arthur waited. Kika hadn't married. Why was that? She was good-looking, and a lady. Was she too choosy? Was she, like Jane, afraid of childbirth? Who could blame her? Did she think her sister's marriage was not to be replicated? Arthur's marriage was surely not an affair of the heart. Mary had said he was hopelessly in love for many years, but with a married woman. Who could that have been?

 He took the cup of tea proffered by Kika, aware that his hand shook. How firmly that hand had always done its work he reflected, and yet now could hardly hold a cup of tea.

 Arthur was smartly dressed. He liked to do it in style and was rather a dandy. Ira liked that. After all, he had always dressed as well as he could, and his father had always cut a fine figure. Was that vanity or just self-respect? He chose the latter, quite consciously.

      

                   

 

HIS LAST NIGHT                 

      Ira lay down to sleep. It was a cool and pleasant evening. Breathing was hard work, and hardly worth the effort he thought. Wondering if he would sleep at all, he rested his hand on Mary's pillow for a moment. For a moment, he saw the bow lips curving in a generous smile, and he heard a voice. It said “What's keeping ye, we're waiting.” He smiled despite his pains, and groaning softly, slid himself down among the sheets. The pain eased, and he suddenly felt very peaceful. His heart didn't seem to be bothering him at all. He drew his arm back and placed it on his chest. It felt fine. The other hand he placed on top of the first. And that's how they found him in the morning.

      The obituary was placed in the paper that very day. It read:

    OBITUARY   

     A resident of nearly fifty years, Mr. Frank Williams, passed peacefully away at his late residence, Romeo street, yesterday morning, at the advanced age of 78 years. The old gentleman had been ailing for the last three years from heart trouble, and of late had been more seriously affected. Yesterday morning the members of the family found their father had expired peacefully in his bed, death having taken place probably an hour before the discovery. The late Mr. Williams was born on 28th August 1834, in Oneida County, New York State, U.S.A., not far from Rome. As a lad he learnt his father's trade, of cooper, and later on for a time worked on a boat on the Erie Canal and Husdon River to New York. At the age of 19 the spirit of adventure seized him and he enlisted in the army and spent two terms of enlistment-ten years in all-in New Mexico, Arizona and Texas scouting after Indians. During the latter part of this period he was a prisoner of war, but managed to escape from the Confederates and passing through Texas he and two companions finally reached Matamoros, Mexico, from whence he reached New York. Here he served during the conscription riots and afterwards at Governor's Island till his term expired in 1863. He then went to Liverpool, and finally reached Melbourne early in 1864. He worked for a time in Melbourne and Sydney, but soon came on to Queensland, eventually reaching Rockhampton. Here he was married on 18th August 1865 and before the end of the year had engaged with the contractor of the telegraph line to Bowen as an axeman. He left this employment at Tierawoomba and came on to the Range road, beyond Eton, before Christmas 1865. He worked on that road till its completion, and later on, under the late Mr. Holmes (Road Board overseer) constructed the Swan Bridge, this side of Eton. After completion of this work the late Mr. Williams opened the Pleystowe Plantation for Mr. Holmes, planting cotton and maize, and continued there for some time. Later on he was employed by Mr. Ramsay at the boiling down works at Walkerston, as cooper and subsequently followed his trade in town. He built the first vats for Pleystowe and other distillleries in the district. Many old hands will remember that his shop stood on the present site of Flemings Limited main store. In 1872, owing to the loss of a son, and illness overtaking the members of the family, he was ordered a sea trip. He therefore sold up and left for America, finally settling down in Santa Cruz Co., California, about 100 miles south of San Francisco, and not far from Monteray, the old capital. He there engaged in farming and fruit growing residing there with his family till early in 1884, when he sold out and returned to Mackay. On his return he carried on his trade for many years in Carlyle street; but for some eight or ten years past he had been living in retirement at his residence in Romeo street. His wife predeceased him seven months ago, and he leaves to mourn their loss two sons and two daughters, Mrs. Guinane, Newton, Ipswich, and Miss K. Williams (Mackay), and our well known townsmen, Mr. A F. Williams (one of the principals in the firm of Flemings Limited), and Mr. Chas. Williams, Deputy Superintendent of the Ambulance Brigade. Deceased was an affiliated Mason of the local E.C. Lodge, No. 1554, from U.S.A., though not an active member for years. Members of the Masonic fraternity are requested to meet at the Masonic Hall at 9.30 o'clock this morning to attend the funeral, which moves from Romeo street at 10 a.m.

     

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

AFTERWORD

 Ira departed this world on the eve of the most terrible war the world had seen. During this war, Arthur and his new wife Kitty had three children, Mary 1914, Griff 1916 and Jack 1918. Mary shared a room with Kika for thirteen years and learned all the stories that Ira had passed on to Kika.

      His days of journalism behind him, Arthur turned to politics and was Mayor of Mackay from 1921-24. At the tender age of thirteen, Mary was sent to board in Sydney with Kitty's highly religious sister, Nell. Under Nell's pious influence, Mary joined the Sisters of Mercy in Tasmania, and didn't see her parents again.

      Griff too, came under the spell of the clergy, and took off to Sydney to try the religious life of the Irish Christian Brothers. He abandoned this and took up teaching, which he found lonely and trying, leading to many disputes with his employers. At the outbreak of World War 2, he joined the Air Force, and spent most of the War as an instructor. Travelling to Melbourne he met Mary Gribbin whom he married in 1944. Griff and Mary went to Mackay, to help care for Kitty. Arthur was pleased to have company, and Mary recalled, many years afterwards, the sociable lunches where Arthur would talk fondly, and at great length, of his childhood in California, and his adventures there in the 1890s. Mary recalled him having no American accent, however, but sounding rather English. Mary and Griff had four children, Paul Joseph, Brian Griffin, Martin Francis and Anne Therese, and adopted Patricia, the youngest.

      Jack left school via the classroom window at the age of fourteen, and roamed the state in various jobs. While Griff's approach was a clear-cut rule-of-law attitude, Jack was inclined to be more free in manner. Jack married Bailey and their children, all born in Queensland, were Catherine, Marcia and Michael.

    

 

 

 

 

 

 

AND THE CURIOSITY OF THE FOLLOWING GENERATION

 Michael and Paul were the two members of that generation to be curious about their ancestry. One figure obstinately refused to emerge from the shadows. They would ask Jack and Griff respectively “But what about your grandfather?”

      “Well, we don't know much about him. We were never really curious. In those days no-one really cared.”

      “But where did he come from?”

      “Oh, Wales, we think.”

      “But what makes you think that?”

 “Someone saw it on a Wedding Certificate or the like I suppose.”

      “And did he come here from Wales?”

      “No – he seems to have come from America. Got caught up in the Civil War, we know his father's name was Sylvanus. Some story about him being posted off to a remote spot with some mates, and they jumped on a ship to Queensland. They were upset because they didn't get money they were owed – that's about all we know.”

      “But who did he marry?”

      “Mary Griffin, she was an Irish girl, from Ennistimon. But he'd been married before, but we don't know who to. We know that much at least, because it said on his marriage certificate that he was a widower. Anyway, he was a cooper, like his father – and that's about all we know.”

      “But was he born in Wales or America?”

       “Mary always insists that his family was American, and I don't know why, but for her everything American is wonderful and everything English is bad. She seems to think he was a great mate of Mark Twain's but I think you can be pretty sure that's just Mary being a Romantic.”

      “Well, has anyone ever checked it out?”

      “Oh I think the trail's gone cold by now. Frank went back to the U.S. at some stage, and my father went there to see if he could claim some land, but there would have been too much to pay by way of back-taxes to make it worthwhile.”     

      And here the conversations, between Michael and Jack, and between Paul and Griff, came to an impasse. But in the 1980's, with retirement time on their hands and the meaning of life weighing more heavily, Mary, Griff and Jack corresponded. Mary had come to live with Jack at Rockhampton while Griff was still down South in Melbourne.

    

EXCERPTS FROM LETTERS

       From the letters of Jack Williams to Griff

     “Bundaberg 7th April 1987

     “...You don't know much about Dad's movements Who does! Why was he in Cooktown, Charters Towers, Bowen especially in those years when transport was not as it is today...well..re Tally Ho, it as you know was a gold mine & was & still is situated behind the Retreat Hotel between Mackay and Nebo...he paid for and had installed a battery and stamper & engine at the mine...too many sulphides and other elements in the ore...father would have thought we were too young to know these things...I think you know as much as I do...he was a good axeman could use a cross cut saw, crowbar and shovel, knew a bit about horticulture  & in general was a pretty handy man & whilst in Flemings Ltd took himself off to Nobles to learn all about explosives so all in all he was a very versatile man & as you and I know a very loving one...my memories of the Cloaks go back to Brisbane & a big tall raw-boned Irishman & his wife both of whom I disliked. Yes! Childhood dislikes I know...Don't take too much notice of Mary's Cloche as that is her version of it not the family's like the Mark Twain bizzo that she still believes...you know all about father's tap that he invented and patented...& a bog preventer that was a forerunner to the bog preventers that were used in the cane fields in the 30s & he was working on & had made a working model of a sailless windmill

    “Bundaberg 15th April 1987

    “...his sister Mary; Olive's mother was born in Mackay in 1872 the year they left to go back to the U.S.A. & Kate was born in the U.S.A....The Catch 22 is Charlie, & just where does he come in? Was he older or younger than dad or was he a child of the first marriage seeing that Frank Williams was a widower. That query I'll leave up to you, also who was his first wife? Did you know “Yes you did” that Frank Williams was an absconder from the American Army, he was a scout with the so called Indian Army & he & 5 others could not get their pay until they signed up for another 3 years so they signed up got their pay & shot through. At the time they were on Governor's Island New York & this is when I think the old scout (Granddad Frank) headed south & then followed the Rio Grande up to the west coast or thereabouts so that is maybe why he went back there also one of the scouts (not an absconder) was one W. F. Cody also known as Buffalo Bill all this by the way came to me from a father who wouldn't talk. After shooting through & on arrival in Sydney one of the first people he saw was one of his absconding mates. Dad, by the way didn't like me asking him if his father was a deserter. He also told me that the land in California was still registered in his father's name – this was in the 40s when he told me; said information was from a forest ranger (Australian by birth) whom Dad knew, who was working in California & when on holidays came to see father re the redwood on said property. Dad started to make enquiries about it but was afraid that if he made a claim he would be saddled with land taxes & maybe the Army would find out about his father absconding seemed to be a thing with him that shooting through bizzo....Dad did mention to me that his father plied his trade in Carlyle St. & also Gregory St. at what was known as the Old Cooperage...I don't know where or when father became a literary or paper man ...the Chronicle..was his paper...& afterwards he bought out the Mercury & who the others were on the board of directors I don't know but you can be sure of one thing & that is that they were Grand Old Masons and father was forced to sell to Manning...father and Manning were opponents for the mayoralty & Manning paid the cab drivers (horse) to drive the voters to the polling booth & Manning being anti-Catholic said: quote “Arthur don't think the mob you associate with will win the mayor's job for you.” Arthur's reply “And don't think the mob you associate with will get it for you,and you have to pay the cab fare and I don't.” Father won as you know, Catholic votes of course.

     I was fortunate he talked to me. I was home you and Mary weren't but I think he talked to your Mary, maybe not as much as he did to me or about family things but I do know and I think M. E. Williams will verify he was the softest, most loving man...you know brother I really do think all this would make a good book maybe like Walton's Mountain; why don't you try it. I know there are lots of gaps but gaps can be filled...heaps of things M and Kiki told me now and then, come to mind, like things of old Mackay & early residents but if I go on in this vein an envelope will be no good-only a bookbinder...Autograph a copy of your book for me...I remind myself more each day of dad with all my addendums and corrections & so forth

“Bundaberg 2nd June 1987

     “...also, even though Grandfather Williams lived in Oneida, Oneida County, New York State & I have seen documents to that effect in dad's trunk, Kate told me that her father was born in Wales & migrated with his family when a child; to America don't ask me how many in the family apart from mother & father & son & she also told me that the old boy, Frank's father, died when he was 105 yrs old & is buried in America & that Frank learnt his trade from his father. All this of course, just to cloud the issue a little bit more...to add to the intrigue, I, like you, have a daughter (Catherine) whom the doctor said is unique because  he removed a mole from her back that he said only occurs in some Scandinavian country or other don't ask me where...Perhaps you'd better give up this family history bizzo might be too many skeletons in too many closets & then again it just might make a good mini series...Incidentally I think you made MT's (Mary Therese) day with the bit about Oneida so out came Mark Twain again & the Encyclopaedia to show me; but he was born in Florida & went to Hannibal as a very young boy & she couldn't find a Clemens in our family but not to be outdone she had the last word “I forget who told me but one of the clan married a Clemens! You know of course brother, that with this family history you have buggered up  a couple of Mary's pet theories shame upon you...you really should feel sorry about all this family history for when MT read  your letter she said “Thank God he was American & not English” but when I told her what Kate had told me she really cut loose; final word again from her “Anyway Wales isn't England” from me “Part of the same country, just Pommie spelt in Welsh is the only difference.” Really think she's educated herself to hate the English. Not crash hot on most of them myself...”

    “Bundaberg 15th June 1987

      “...I'm not puzzling about the discrepancy re birthplace I only know what I was told & that will do me; for I can't change it even if I felt so inclined but; Griff! You certainly know how to empty the dunny tin on the fan as regards MT and our non-existent American ancestor. She read the letter then threw it down on the table & said “I don't care, he wasn't English.” She is really nearly paranoid about the English and went so far as to fill in the Census ANCESTORS-American & Irish.  Mine, Welsh & Irish when I told her that there might be some confusion seing that we were blood brother & sister she grudgingly changed it to Welsh but not English.

     “Bundaberg 10th August 1987

     “...Yes Griff, you're on the right track, spurred on I think by Mary (to her credit)...Your sympathy should go out to big sister or MT as I call her because after you shot her down in flames re the Pommy side of the Williams then Jack Cloake shot her down again re the Cloake's not Cloche (French) who escaped from France & the Revolution & got to Ireland & became Cloake-Cloak-Cloke or whatever. Heaven forbid she be right, I'd pack up & go to the Simpson Desert where the only cloak would be the wearable kind (kangaroo skin)...Griff when you and Jack get your projects...completed...one may assume that more has or will have been put on paper than will or has been recorded about most families or clans...I told Jack I don't have the brain power or drive to take on such a project “I dips me lid to you brother....I know I'm a lousy rotten so-and-so but I must tell you that I'm sitting writing this wearing shorts & T shirt & & I also only have one stubbie left so will have to do something re the stubbie very soon-Now!

Love to you all

Hope it's not too cold

Jack”

    FROM A LETTER OF MARY WILLIAMS

TO  HER BROTHER GRIFF

“Bundaberg 3rd Feb 1996

“...June said that somewhere in the background there was a Chasely Kathleen (Irish) maybe she was old Frank's first wife? I always thought it might have been Pocohantas.

Old Frank was a great friend of Mark Twain & used to write articles for him & once went on a trip with him to what June thinks must have been Yellow-Stone Park.

I suppose Jack told you that Llewellyn was born in Mackay 13 June 1868 & died about the end of 1871 at 2½ years, so dad must have been about 12 months old then. Jack says that when Kiki mentioned him dad used to “shoosh” her...P.S. Just found out today-he died of diptheria...”

       Michael, meanwhile, refused to let the matter drop. He and his wife, Nita, who had aleady undertaken extensive research of her family, travelled to the United States armed with Frank's obituary. Oneida County was scoured, and Watsonville thoroughly searched, but no trace of Frank Williams was found. The records of the Union Army and those of the Confederate prisons also yielded nothing. Not that there was any shortage of soldiers named Frank Williams.They could have formed a decent-sized army of their own.

       Puzzled and frustrated (for they are a formidable and determined couple) they returned to Australia to ponder the next move. The next move turned out to be a Y chromosome DNA test. Michael was surprised to find that he had no male ancestor by the name of Williams, but that he was related through a common ancestor to a great many people in the U.S., by the name of Coan, Coon and Coons.

       Now, into the computerised mix went the names, FRANCIS WILLIAMS-SYLVANUS WILLIAMS-COAN-COON-COONS and what Nita discovered was a marriage SYLVANUS COAN-FRANCES WILLIAMS.  

      Before long this connected them to the Coan genealogy by Ruth Fulton Coan where they discovered the family provenance. It also enabled them to find and apply for Ira's Army records.  With each step it became clearer and clearer that Ira Smith Coan and Frank Williams were one and the same person. By this time, Jack and Mary had died, and Griff alone survived. Michael rang him not long before his death, and informed him of their discovery. There was a long, long pause at the end of the phone, followed by “I think this goes no further.” Although close to his father, Griff, Paul was unaware of this call, made in mid 2006 (he died on New Year's Day 2007). Not till February 2009 did Paul learn of his family history when his sister Anne rang to tell him. Her son, Alastair, on the same trail as Michael and Nita, had made contact with them and learned the full story.

       Michael's search continued in America where he found a Coan to take the test, providing a conclusive match, and has been in communication with Bill Coan and family as well as his cousin Charlotte. As expected, they proved to be intelligent and charming, thereby confirming the genetic link.

 

 CONVERSATIONS IN 2010 WITH MARY WILLIAMS         

(Mary Gribbin who married Griff Williams in 1944)

 “It's such a long time ago now, and as you won't recall, I was very busy with a new baby – you – so might not have noticed some of the things you now want to know. We went to Mackay to look after Griff's mother, Kitty. She was a lot of fun. Before she married Arthur, she and Kika used to walk down the Main street in Mackay behind Arthur, imitating his walk. They both loved poetry, and they disciplined your dad and the others by sending them aside to read poetry, which they enjoyed greatly...

 My impression of the men is that they were gentlemen, and intelligent...

 I have never wanted a married couple to share a house. Kitty had her sister-in-law Kika and another friend and they were self-sufficient. Arthur was rather lonely in some ways. Their house was known as the lighthouse as he was up amending, writing and reading till all hours...

  When I first got there they said “Oh you're a real English Rose. What a beautiful complexion. Don't worry, you'll soon be like us.” It was always warm and sticky, with lots of creeping crawling things. I longed for a Melbourne fog...

 I was happy to come back to Melbourne, and Griff loved Melbourne too. He was very much taken with what he called the “Melbourne chimney-scape”...

 I recall that after Arthur died, Jack and Griff were out burning off a lot of papers, I've no idea what they were. There was also a box of stuff from the first marriage, but where that went is anybody's guess. On the night of Arthur's funeral, Dad and Jack sat on the grave overnight so that no Masonic ritual could be enacted. Dad didn't know that Arthur was a Mason until after he died, when he found the regalia...

 Arthur loved his childhood in California, and he would talk about all his old classmates in great detail. A lot of his social and political ideas were American too. The family went to Brisbane to run the jam factory in the twenties and your father's first school was a small private school run by two ladies...

   Arthur didn't seem have an American accent at all. In fact, he sounded more English than anything. He didn't seem to speak much about his father. I think he had always been embarrassed about his desertion, and probably thought that it would be a social and political liability for him if it got out, as people would have used that sort of information, particularly in that sectarian age...   

      It's a long time ago as I said, and I was awfully busy at the time. But that's really about all I can tell you. Well, I suppose this is not making the baby a new dress, but maybe it will help you with your book.”

 And the author sometimes wonders if, somewhere in Queensland, perhaps tucked away in an ancient tool chest, or presiding over the kingdom of the spiders in an old barn, or waiting patiently in the store room of an antique shop, stands a carved wooden object of no known provenance, but entrusted with the secrets of the dead, and the care of the living.

FROM PART 3 OF “COAN THE COOPER”

ACROSS THE PACIFIC