An Oondooroo Sky

By Ron Nielsen

Sam Blain and Ben Fisher migrated to Australia from Great Britain in mid-1871 to work on the steam tug the Young Australian, on the Roper River during the construction of the overland telegraph line.
Years later, the families moved to Winton, where Sam and Ben worked as shearers at Oondooroo shed and were involved in the shearers strikes of the 1890s. After many years of hardship, World War I arrived.
Ben Fishers son Jack headed back to the Roper River while Sam Blains son, Jimmy, who had always been interested in the wings of flight, went over to England to join the RAF. When Jimmy arrived home from the war, he found he had a crippled son. This is the life story of the crippled boy, Johnny Blain, who struggled through everyday life but strode to follow in his fathers footsteps in the wings of flight.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris AU
• Release date: Jan 13, 2015
• ISBN: 9781499026474

Ron Nielsen

Ron Nielsen was born in the small sugarcane growing town of Home Hill, Queensland, in 1947. He cut sugarcane by hand for five years before cane harvesters came into operation, which ended the career of the cane cutter. Ron obtained work at the Inkerman Sugar Mill, driving a sugar train. Over the years, he witnessed the mighty Burdekin River break its banks, flooding his hometown and inflicting much damage to the railway bridge that linked north to south. Ron’s interests are fishing, drawing, and painting—also aircrafts and car shows.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Eureka Stockade, 1854

‘The bastards are really sinking the boot into us miners now they weren’t satisfied proclaiming Crown rights for the mining, now they have the hide to treble our bloody license fee from £1 to £3 a month,’ declared the stirred German Dirk Peiling to fellow battler Henry Mills.

The Englishman Mills shook his head distastefully spitting into the dusty Ballarat dirt. There was much dissent amongst the ranks. The government had even imposed strict liquor licensing laws. ‘Where will it all end? All our meetings, protests, and demonstrations have led to nothing. It’s high time to do away with talking, action is what is needed, Dirk!’

‘I cannot agree more, Henry, there will be bloodshed, and it won’t be the diggers who instigate it. The burning of Bentleys Hotel by us miners in the payback for murdered Scottish comrade James Scobie has agitated government officials. There is much fear that conflict is in the wind.’

The weeks drifted by; further protests by gathering miners over the arrests of seven members were brought to justice over the hotel burning.

The government increased troopers’ presence around the goldfields. The miners felt a certain uneasiness when officials demanded them to display their current license! There was a rising uproar of anger; many diggers openly burnt their miner’s licenses.

‘I don’t like it, Dirk, something is going to break, the troopers are calling for our blood!’ declared Mills with deep concern in his voice.

‘So true, so very true, but we must defend our rights and liberties,’ swore the German, his eyes set deep in his determined gaze.

‘It’s a tall order, Dirk, we are few against so many. They have a huge advantage. The government troopers are experienced fighters.’

The German’s eyes were in agreement. ‘But you must remember, don’t underestimate the will of us miners. We will fight on to the end with guts and a killer instinct that will send them scampering with their tails between their legs. United we stand, divided we fall, my friend.’

The look on the face of the Englishman hinted there may be a fracture in the armour of Henry Mills, and it became obvious when he replied, ‘Dirk, I have a wife and daughter to consider, and you yourself have young Jessie who had already been through hell losing her mother from sickness at such a young age. Jessie could not afford to lose you!’

Dirk Peiling’s eyes were suddenly struck down with grief. It was only two months ago that his wife died of a terrible illness.

For a moment, the German bows his head low, reflecting on the misery of the past. ‘I must ask you a favour, Henry.’

‘What is it, Dirk? I will do anything to help if I possibly can.’

‘If something happened to me in the conflict, would it be too much to ask of you to take her under your guidance and look after her?’

The Englishman shook his head. ‘Consider it done, it would be what is expected of a loyal friend.’

‘Thank you, Henry, those words bring so much relief to my mind.’

Saturday night, 2nd of December 1854, was a night filled with glistening stars. All was silent around the Eureka stockade. Henry Mills was lying awake listening to the stillness in the air, his mind deep in thought. ‘If we can last out the rest of the night, we will be safe for another twenty-four hours. The troopers would never dare to offend the Lord and attack on a Sunday,’ he thought.

He took a quick glance at his wife Hilda and his five-year-old daughter Beth who were sleeping soundly across from him. For some time, he dwelled on the future, then finally crashed off to sleep. Little did he realize the military structure of Brigades were being assembled at this very moment, preparing for a surprise attack.

In the tent across from him, a restless Dirk Peiling had not had a minute’s sleep. He felt discomfort, feeling the effects of the sultry sticky air. He threw off his blankets.

Not for a moment did he believe the troopers would not attack on a Sunday—he had heard rumours that he had decided to keep them to himself and not to bring fear and terror into the folks around him.

But his swearing to silence was starting to break down. He felt for this safety of his daughter, so he wandered over to Henry’s tent. ‘Henry, Henry, are you awake?’ Dirk’s voice was a little louder than a whisper.

Henry’s eyes flashed wide open as he glanced at the shadowy figure outside. He threw off his blankets and walked outside to witness the concerned look on Dirk Peiling’s face. ‘What is troubling you, Dirk? You should be sleeping at this hour of the night.’

The German shook his head. ‘I can’t, Henry, I feel we are in grave danger. I have heard whispers that there will be an assault on the miners during the night. They will use surprise as their key advantage.’

‘So what are we going to do, Dirk?’

‘Pack up your wagon in readiness for a fast getaway!’

‘I cannot do it, Dirk, it would be an act of cowardice deserting my fellow miners!’

‘You must! You even said so yourself only hours ago that you had your family to consider. Now go, do as I say, Henry. I will pack Jessie’s clothes in readiness just in case there is a surprise attack.’

‘As you wish, Dirk, but I think you are jumping to conclusions.’

‘Maybe, maybe not, but better to be prepared than be sorry.’

Another hour passed, another hour closer to daylight. Henry had awoken his wife, and together they packed the wagon in readiness for that quick escape. Suddenly his ears were turned to the faint sound of galloping horses.

‘Hilda!’ he yelled with desperation. ‘You and little Beth get yourselves under the cover in the wagon and be quick about it.’

Dirk Peiling too had heard the sound of approaching infantrymen and ran outside. A pall of dust could be observed under the moonlight. He loaded his rifle in readiness. There were shouts and curses all around.

‘The troopers are coming!’ one miner screamed. ‘We will die like true warriors!’ said another. Within minutes, the outline of the red coats came into view. Rifle shots echoed in the stirring dust. Dirk had taken a shot and started reloading his gun when the figure of Henry Mills stood gallantly beside him, his gun whipping a deadly crackle. The German looked at his companion with warning eyes. ‘What are you doing, Henry, you should be on your way to escape.’

‘I will die fighting with you, my friend.’

Dirk Peiling shook his head in protest; his eyes fired like the devil himself. ‘You will die, my friend, that is for sure, but it won’t be from the trooper’s bullet. It will be from Dirk Peiling’s gun! Get the damn girls out of here! I will hold the bastards off.’

But those brave words would be the German’s last. The leading trooper directed his sights on him; his aim proved deadly, the bullet tearing into Dirk Peiling’s chest. For a split second, the German clutched at the wound, then fell backwards into the dust. The terrified Jessie, seeing her father fall, rushed to his aid, her small hand caressing the wound as she started to weep. ‘Daddy! Daddy! wake up! Please wake up!’

Henry Mills’s actions were swift. He grasped the little girl under the arms and threw her in the wagon. In an instant, Henry whipped his horses into full stride and headed in the direction of the foothills, where he could hide in the cover of the bushland.

Every few seconds, he looked back. Gunshots were still cracking above the burning tents; the white-and-blue Eureka flag bearing the Southern Cross flew proudly. There was a sense of guilt spinning in his mind. He remembers when he stood with his fellow comrades, swearing under oath: ‘We will stand together and fight until the end for our rights of freedom!’

He felt like a deserter, a traitor to the cause. His wife sitting beside him turned her attention towards him. ‘Where will we go, Henry, surely they will hunt us down.’ ‘Anywhere, Hilda, the further away the better. Be prepared for a long journey. I don’t plan on being caught. If I do, they will try me for my treason, they may even hang a man.’ Henry Mills’s thoughts were unclear, his destination unknown. There was so much pressure and expectation placed upon him; the responsibility of protecting the three girls a daunting task. They could fall on hard times.

Dirk Peiling’s name was set deep in his heart. His good friend’s death had come in a blinding flash—may God rest his soul.

Great Britain, 1869

It was a bleak dreary day on 23 November 1869 on the Seven River, Dumbarton, one day after a huge celebration of the successful launch of the clipper ship, Cutty Sark.

The ‘Cutty Sark’ name came from the Witch Nannie Dee. She was the figurehead, a stark-white bare-breasted woman with long black hair holding a horse’s tail in her hand.

‘Nannie Dee’ was the ship’s guardian and would lead the tea clipper safely across the many ocean routes she would venture.

The first mission would be under the command of Captain George Moodie when she would deliver a cargo of wine and spirits to Shanghai.

Sam Blain would be one of the sailors on that mission. But it was a shame that it would not take place until 16 February, another eleven weeks away, and Sam, now unemployed, had a mere £20 to his name. Twenty pounds, the difference between survival and starvation.

He could have stood there and admired the great ship for much longer, but he had another commitment, a booked ringside seat at the town hall awaited him. The tournament had already started, but he was only interested in the main heavyweight bout between Freddie Higgens, a local boy from Dumbarton, against an outsider from Blackwall.

He started to make his way there, his mind spinning with. Displeased thoughts, cruel degrading thoughts, he wanted the hometown boy Freddie Higgens belted to a pulp as there was so much hate in his heart towards him. The reason being of the time he had spent working in a gang, building the Cutty Sark. Sam had experienced many heated arguments during that time. Higgens, a man of little tolerance, declaring they settle their differences away from the worksite. But Sam Blain knew of his own capabilities in a dust up and knew it would not be in his best interest to mix it with such a rugged critter with flashing fists.

The whistle of a steam tug suddenly drifted across the damp gloomy light. He observed a tug, towing the recently built Aberdeen clipper, Thermopylae, one of the many beautiful British designed ships that would surely set records in the tea-trade route.

His mind turned back to the boxing match up. He knew the man from Blackwall was a rank outsider, and the chances of him causing an upset are very slim. But all he could do was hope for a miracle. Eventually, he sighted the dim lights of the town hall in the distance. Not long now, he thought, and all his prayers would be answered.

It’s only been a matter of five minutes when he started to enter the hall, the second last fight of the night now in progress. Sam taking little interest in the bout, and he was pleased when the fight finally ended. The crowd was in silence as they waited for the main event.

‘Two to one odds for the man from Blackwall!’ came the challenging shout from one of the local bookmakers. Sam looked around and observed a short fat bald fellow with a glowing red face moving down the aisle, trying to entice a spectator to back Ben Fisher, but there were very few takers.

Finally, he confronted Sam Blain. ‘What about you, young man, want to double your money? You look like a betting man.’

Sam Blain pulled two £10 notes from his coat pocket. ‘I will have ten on the boy from Blackwall.’ The greedy eyes of the red-faced bookmaker seized the opportunity of making easy money. ‘Place £20 on, son, and I will give you three to one. I am in a generous mood tonight, I’m throwing my money away.’ There was hesitation in the bookie’s generous offer. Blain was in two minds whether to take the bet. ‘Make it four to one, and you got yourself a bet,’ declared a crafty Sam Blain.

Now there was hesitation on the part of the bookie. ‘Come on, man, show a bit of guts. Those who hesitate are lost,’ swore Sam with those daring words.

‘You are on, son, four to one it will be!’

Finally, the two contenders entered the ring. There was a one-sided roar of cheering for the hometown boy. The announcer, a dark-haired thin-set man in a grey suit made his way to the centre of the ring. ‘Ladies and gentlemen! Could I please have your attention!’ The packed house was returned to silence. ‘We are present tonight to witness what we expect to be a bruising contest to be fought over a distance of twelve two-minute rounds. It is now my pleasure to introduce you to the contenders.

‘To my right in the blue corner, hailing from Blackwall, in the eastern end of London on the northern bank of the River Thames, historically part of the Parish of Middlesex, a man with a record of ten wins, three by knockout, weighing in at a solid 198 pounds. I introduce you to the Blackwall Bruiser Ben Fisher!

‘Ladies and gentlemen, to my left in the red corner, from our hometown of Dumbarton, with an impressive record of eighteen straight knockouts, weighing in at 216 pounds, I give you Fearless Freddy Higgens.’

The roar of the crowd was overwhelming, but not from Sam Blain.

There was a shadow of doubt in his mind when he looked upon the daunting figure of Freddy Higgens. He looked the meanest critter, his expression as hard as nails.

The two fighters were called to the centre of the ring, each exchanging angry glances like two lions set to slaughter their prey. Silence fell over the crowd as the referee addressed them, explaining that he wanted a clean and uninterrupted bout.

The two fighters went back to their corners and waited for the bell. For those few anxious moments in waiting, many thoughts were being accessed in the Blackwall boy’s head. Ben Fisher realized that he was fighting for survival, he was stone motherless broke; he needed that £15 prize money, while he knew his opponent was fighting for honour and glory.

Ben eyed off his opponent. He was slightly over 6'2" with massive forearms that could deliver a deadly blow. But he sensed a weakness in his armour. He was a little soft around the midsection and that’s where the Blackwall boy would direct his attack.

The bell suddenly sounded like a chime from London’s ‘Big Ben’, and the two fighters came stalking to the centre of the ring. The punches start-ed to flow hard and fast. Round by round, as the fight progressed, Fearless Freddy moved with grace for such a big man delivering many superb combinations. By the sixth round, he was easily winning the fight.

For the start of the seventh round, they were slogging punch for punch, but the man Higgens was faster and deadly accurate, the boy from Blackwell outclassed. One of his punches split above the left eye. It seemed it would only be a matter of time before Higgens would deliver the knockout blow. There were only thirty seconds left in the round when Higgens delivered a stinging straight right that dropped the Blackwall boy to the canvas. The ref started the count.

‘Get up, Ben, you ain’t done yet!’ yelled a desperate Sam Blain.

Ben glanced over at the man in the front row urging him to fight on. He could taste the bitter scent of blood in his mouth; it was before the count of nine that he lifted himself from the canvas. Higgens came charging in to finish him, but the sweet timing of the bell surely saved him.

Sam Blain looked into the corner to a dejected beaten man. He could feel his twenty pounds slipping away. Higgens, in the other corner, was looking extremely confident; it was as certain as black and white that Fisher would be his next victim, adding another to his eighteen straight knockouts.

The bell sounded for the commencement of the eighth round, and it started like the seventh ended. Fisher was again in for plenty of punishment. A left uppercut found its way to Fisher’s jaw and once again, he met the canvas.

‘Come on, Ben! You can do it, I know you can.’ Ben Fisher glared at his supporter through swollen eyes, his fist pumping with urgency. Once again, he struggled from the canvas. The Blackwall boy’s courage startled the large crowd, but Ben Fisher was still dazed. He felt unsteady on his feet. He could hear the drums of defeat ringing in his ears. It seemed a miracle as he survived that eighth round.

Thirty seconds of the break passed like the blink of an eye. Thirty seconds of encouraging shouts from Sam Blain. ‘Higgens is tiring, Ben, he is losing heart, not being able to put you away. You will beat him, Ben, show that fighting spirit that your ancestors from Blackwall possessed. Don’t let them down.’

Those inspiring words from Sam Blain had an amazing effect on the Blackwall boy. He came charging out, a different man. Both fighters exchanging punches in a deadly fashion. Higgens pushed his opponent into a corner. Fisher desperately trying to fight his way out.

That weakness in Higgens’s armour that he had observed before the fight became a challenge. Ben Fisher delivered a crushing blow to the midsection, and it stopped the Dumbarton boy in his tracks. He buckled over in pain, his jaw exposed to a deadly right cross. Higgens’s eyes rolled to the back of his head, and he crashed head first to the floor.

The crowd was stunned to silence as they witnessed their hometown boy counted out. The referee raised the hand of the victor. Sam Blain jumped out of his seat with jubilation. ‘Revenge is sweet, Higgens, revenge is sweet.’

One by one, the disappointed crowd left the hall, but Sam Blain was not one of them, he was in no hurry to leave. He had an appointment to keep. He eyed the dispirited bookie standing at the doorway, who reluctantly handed over 100 pounds to Sam Blain.

Sam believed it was time for a little celebration. He had two events to drink to: one was his winning of £80, and the most rewarding was the knockout of Freddy Higgens.

He passed many crowded bars but set his mind on drinking somewhere a little quieter. Eventually, he stumbled on one to his liking, and he was rather shocked when he found Ben Fisher drinking at the bar.

‘Well, this is an honour, meeting up with the champion from Blackwall. It would be a privilege to buy you a drink.’

The battered figure shook his head. ‘No, friend, I will be the one buying the drink. If it had not been for your inspiring words, I would have been the one counted out on the canvas. So who will I be buying the drink for, anyway?’

‘Sam Blain’s the name.’

‘Pleased to meet you, Sam.’

‘A pleasure to meet you too, Ben,’ replied the Dumbarton boy looking into the distorted face of the boxer, which when observed up close looked as hard as stone and ventured to hell and back.

‘Where did you learn to fight like that, Ben?’

The fighter shook his head. ‘Growing up around Blackwall was pretty rough. I had taken many beatings as a youngster. My eldest brother was the worst. I experienced many bruising bare-knuckled encounters against them. What about yourself—a fighting man?’

‘Not me, Ben. I am one to run and see another day.’ The Blackwall man showed a slight grin.

‘Smart man, Sam! Where do you work?’

‘Nowhere at the moment, Ben. I was employed building the Cutty Sark, but as you well know, she is completed.’

‘That would have been interesting. I was at the launch yesterday, it sure was a memorable occasion, Sam.’

‘That it was, my friend. The ship will now be moved to Denny’s yard to have her masts fitted, then towed down to River Greenock to have her rigging installed, which will give her 32,000 square feet of sail.’

‘That is impressive, Sam!’

‘Very impressive. It will be a real experience to serve on such magnificent ship on her first mission to Shanghai.’

‘So you’re going to serve on the ship?’

‘Yes, I am, but it won’t be leaving port until February.’

‘I would give my right arm to have that honour, Sam.’

‘Well, maybe that can be arranged. I know people in high places.’

London, February 1870

The beautiful sailing clipper, Cutty Sark, sank down to her water line after being loaded with a cargo of wine and spirits. A cargo bound for a voyage to Shanghai.

Towing lines were being attached to the tug boats in preparation for her journey to the mouth of the Thames.

Captain George Moodie was dressed in the most elegant tailored suit. Those brass buttons on his coat gleamed with brilliance under the early light.

His shoes of the finest leather skimmed lightly along the ship’s teak timber-polished decks.

He strode with authority, perhaps with a touch of ignorance, as he paraded up and down addressing his selected crew.

His words were stern and with warning. ‘You should all be proud to serve on a ship with such beautiful lines of elegance,’ were his welcoming words.

‘There is much expectation from you seafaring men. But I swear to you, it won’t come easy. There lay many challenges ahead of us. We have to be competitive against our rivals. Already the new Aberdeen clipper Thermopylae has set records giving prestige to its owners, but I am afraid to inform you that the Thermopylae is not our main rival.

‘The Suez Canal is now open for shipping, and there is a danger our sailing clippers may lose our trade to those menacing steam ships with the shorter route. Taking a course through the canal and Red Sea, they are determined to destroy the life of our clipper ships.

‘Honour and courage is what is expected as we will face ragging and stormy seas around the African coast route. We must try to maintain a sustained speed of seventeen knots tacking when facing prevailing head winds.

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‘Our speed will depend on the skill of the crew. Your movements must be haste and with desperation when making adjustments to the sails. I wish you pleasant sailing and the best of British luck, lads.’

Those were the captain’s final words.

The clipper’s sails were silent, her tall masks prowling endlessly into the heavens as she was towed towards the open sea.

Very soon Cutty Sark was plunging gracefully towards China.

Ben Fisher was standing on its mighty bow talking to Sam Blain. They glanced beyond the bowsprit: the sea stretching for endless miles, London Harbour just a mirage in the distance.

Ben looked over at Sam with adventurous eyes. ‘We have a long gruelling trip ahead of us, Sam?’ The man Blain gives a high-spirited grin. ‘We will do this ship proud, my friend.’

‘Yes, I believe so. It will be a challenging experience. The sea is something of a miracle and wonder, but we will handle it, Sam.’

Ben’s words were calming and reassuring. Over the months ahead, they would experience many sleepless nights and days; after eight months on the rolling seas, the Cutty Sark finally arrived back in London with 1,450 tons of tea. She was a ship that was made in Britain. The crew received a substantial bonus for the first ship to arrive back that year with tea. But that bonus was not enough to entice Sam and Ben on signing on the great ship for another mission. Sam declared that he would like to try something different. He proposed to Ben Fisher they venture to Australia as there was so much promise in the new colony.

Ben Fisher whole heartedly agreed.

Chapter 2

The years drifted by. It had been seventeen years since the uprising at Eureka, seventeen unforgotten years since the miners defended their British rights against its ruthless attack on workers’ rights.

Henry Mills was one of the lucky ones who survived that day and since the tragedy had worked his way around Australia in various places.

He arrived in Alice Wells in the Northern Territory in 1871. The overland telegraph line construction was in progress. He considered himself fortunate to obtain a job on the telegraph line that would follow the route explored by John McDouall Stuart two years beforehand.

After a few days, he found the conditions appalling for family life, so he decided to send the girls to the work’s final destination, the newly formed settlement of Port Darwin.

The Englishman found the work demanded endurance and courage and physical strength if one was to survive the long, hard road to victory.

Many folk believed its completion was doomed for failure and the prediction looked certain. Stock losses along the route were extremely high due to the dry conditions.

Many men left the gangs due to the desolate country and the fear of coming into conflict with hostile aboriginals, but it seemed those with that the negative outlook would be proved wrong as progress was going to plan, with the southern and middle sections completed on schedule.

But fortune suddenly changed. Those monsoonal rains arrived. Rain, rain, rain. There seemed no end to the dreary conditions. Rivers began to swell and flood. All construction of the telegraph line came to a standstill. The situation was becoming deadly serious. Gangs of workers were stranded with little food, facing starvation.

Something had to be done to relieve the situation and attend to as soon as possible. The wet season had halted supplies; access by land was out of the question. The advantage of the Roper River as a port and depot for transporting materials by ship was soon recognized by the South Australian government. Their officials desperately started to organize the purchasing of suitable vessels. The Honourable Blythe, treasurer of the province of South Australia, was one of those officials selected.

William Wells, the owner of the steam paddle the Young Australian was a serious businessman. He was a wealthy stately southerner dressed in a dark suit with a bow tie. He stood on the docks at Queens wharf, Port Adelaide, admiring the steam tug lying sleepily in the harbour’s murky waters. He removed his watch from his coat pocket and glanced at the hour. It was twenty minutes past nine on this bright and sunny Friday morning. Already the man in question was twenty minutes late.

But William was a calm, collective man; he realized that virtue and patience were key essentials when it came to making a successful deal. And the sale of the Young Australian was no exception. The government official would eventually arrive sooner than later.

Within ten minutes, William’s patience was rewarded as a shadowy figure emerged from a building along the docks.

‘I must apologize my late arrival, William,’ were his words of bidding good day. The steam tug owner shook his head with understanding.

‘Apology accepted, sir, I know of your tight schedule.’

‘Very tight, indeed. I am nearly swept off my feet with the problems of the overland telegraph line.’

‘Well, sir, the problem solver is before your very eyes.’

‘Yes, William, so let’s not beat about the bush and get down to business.’

‘Why not, sir, that is the reason for our meeting.’

The province treasurer cast an assessing eye over the steamer in question.

‘Well, sir, what is your impression?’

‘Fair, but not impressive. I thought the Young Australian would have been much larger,’ declares Blyth, not willing to give anything away towards praising the steam tug. But the owner is full of praise for the steam tug. ‘She is a magnificent vessel, sir, just what you need to carry supplies up the Roper, all of ninety-four feet in length and weighing just over ninety tons. She is an ideal size to cruise along the treacherous waters of the Roper.’

The government official nodded his head. That brought a confident smile to the seller’s face.

‘Maybe, maybe you have a point, but she is getting some age about her.’

William’s eyes disputed Blyth’s conclusion. ‘Not really, sir! According to the register of British ships, the Young Australian was built in Blackwall in 1853. We are talking a mere seventeen and a half years. That is nothing in British boatbuilding craftsmanship. She has a sturdy wooden frame, and her decks are reinforced to carry heavy loads, which is what you will certainly require.’

The man Blyth returned a fox-like grin. ‘You are crafty one, Wells. Your selling skills are impressive! How much are you asking?’

The businessman shrugs his shoulders in a careless way. ‘Twelve hundred and fifty pounds. It would have cost double that to build. I think that is a reasonable price, sir.’

The man Blyth shook his head in disagreement. ‘Far too much, my budget is restricted.’

‘Well, sir, make me an offer.’

‘I think nine hundred pounds would be a fair offer.’

‘You have got to be joking, sir. She is worth much more than that. You have truly insulted me, I am not intent on giving her away.’

The government official gave a smile. ‘I don’t think a man like you could be insulted, William, and as for giving her away, at that price I don’t think so. It seems we are getting nowhere! What is your rock bottom price, William?’

‘One thousand pounds, and no less, sir.’

‘Well now, we are talking business. That is far more reasonable than the £1,250 we started on. William Wells, we have a deal!’

The docks were at a height of activity on this late December day in 1871. Engine-powered derricks lifted huge amounts of supplies, including coal and water, slowly lowering the hull of the steam tug the Young Australian further into the harbour’s murky waters.

Eventually everything seemed in readiness for her long journey. Her boilers were fired up, and she departed the harbour under the command of Captain James Lowrie. The vessel moved with grace from the calm waters of the port to the choppy waters of the open sea. The smell of burning coal filled the air as dark smoke rolled from her tall stack.

Eight days of endurance saw her arrive at King George Sound, taking on fifty-seven tons of coal, then sailed onto Fremantle loading on further supplies. The winds strengthened and the sea became rougher as they steamed towards Darwin.

Her paddles, driven by a forty horsepower steam engine, thrashed through terrifying seas at six knots. Water came crashing over her decks, the bilge pumps struggling to maintain the level of water in the hull.

The captain steered the ship on a steady course. Lowrie was a seasoned seaman; he studied the currents, the wind, and the size of the waves by day. They were making headway into a brutal wind. Shipmate Des Hawkins joined the captain in the wheelhouse. ‘I don’t like it, Captain, the conditions are hindering our progress, placing a strain on our coal supply.’

The captain shook his head with concern. ‘It seems we have a problem, Hawkins.’

‘That we do, sir.’

‘Well then, we must take drastic action.’

‘What are your intentions, sir?’

‘Hawkins, inform the crew to remove the floats on the paddles. We will hoist the sails and let the wind give us power.’

‘That is a brave decision, sir. The wind is savage, I fear a storm is brewing in. But I will see to it that your command is carried out.’

‘Good then, Hawkins, it’s only the brave and the daring that will survive!’

Hawkins gave his captain a salute, then strode away to attend to his command.

Within half an hour, they sailed through treacherous conditions at a speed of seven knots, the sails in full bloom driving the paddle steamer forward.

Hawkins returned to the captain. ‘Sir, we are making rapid progress at seven knots.’ The captain smiled with proudness. ‘Well, Hawkins, that’s one knot better than under steam.’

‘Yes, sir, your option was a positive one.’

‘Thank you, Hawkins. Have you anything else to report?’

‘Yes, sir, there is.’

‘Well, man, don’t keep me in suspense. What have you to report?’

‘Part of the crew is getting restless, sir. Some are stoned out of their heads so horribly drunk. They fear that death is upon them!’

The captain’s eyes were one of concern. ‘They call themselves sailors, they are nothing more than a bunch of wimps. Where is their pride? It is a poor state of a man who has to drown his weakness in drink. Surely they knew the risk involved taking on duties as a seaman. What were they thinking, that it was going to be Sunday picnic?’

‘You are correct in what you are saying, sir, but I don’t think anything will change them.’

‘We will see about that, Hawkins. Hold onto the wheel, man, and steer her on a steady course. I must go and have words with those involved.’

Les Hawkins watched the captain stride away with intent on addressing the lack of discipline within the ranks. He knew the captain’s manner. Lowrie was a restless seafaring man who commanded absolute respect. He addressed those in dispute, declaring that there would be a reduction in their pays and that once they reach Port Darwin, he would no longer require their services.

After weeks of battering the western coastal fringe, Port Darwin was in James Lowrie’s sight. Over half the residents of Port Darwin, 300 people, were present on the decks to welcome the steam tug.

One of the spectators was a rawboned 6'1" Englishman by the name of Ben Fisher. He peered through squinted eyes at the silhouette of the steam paddle as it entered the harbour. Standing beside him holding his arm was Jessie Peiling, a radiant blonde who had grown into a well-groomed woman.

Many folk were amazed that such a pretty girl keep company with an abrupt Englishman with average looks. But there was a reason in Jessie’s choosing. There was so much resemblance in stature and appearance of Ben and her late father. It took years to recover from the tragedy at Eureka. Those restless times gave no warning, not even time to say good-bye, but now she has put the grief and sorrow behind her, becoming a confident positive young woman.

She glanced up at the Englishman and smiled. ‘The moment you have been waiting for, Ben, is only a half hour away.’

‘Yes, Jessie, and what a moment that will be! My father, with many other workers, built this vessel in the Blackwall dockyards. I was only five years old when I witnessed the launching back in 1853. And what an event that was!’

‘Well then, you can consider yourself lucky that you have the privilege to gaze over her once more, Ben.’

Jessie had barely finished saying those consoling words when she felt a warm gentle hand rest on her shoulder. She turned to witness the contented eyes of Beth Mills.

Beth Mills was a good-looker with sparkling interesting eyes. She had comforted Jessie ever since the bloodshed at Eureka. Over those seventeen years, they had spent many happy and depressed times together. They were so close, they treated each other like sisters.

Yes, Jessie Peiling knew she owed so much thanks and appreciation to the Mills’ family for their supportive upbringing.

‘Hah! so it is the boy from Blackwall here early to witness the arrival of his hometown-built steam tug!’ is Sam Blain’s way of bidding the time of day. Ben Fisher gives one of his rare smiles. ‘You got it right, my friend! That’s where real boats are made, built in the ancient hamlet of poplar itself, the old shipbuilding centre of Blackwall, their craftsmanship driven in the nineteenth century by mercantile interests of manufacturing of shipping vessels. More than I can say about your hometown of Dumbarton!’

Sam shook his head, grinning wildly. ‘Are you forgetting, my friend, the swift Cutty Sark was constructed there, a ship of fine qualities, a ship that you seek pleasure serving on?’

For a moment, Ben Fisher’s mind drifted back to only a few months ago. ‘Yes, Sam, I suppose you are correct in your statement. I did enjoy my time working on the Dumbarton-built ship.’

‘There can be no doubt,’ stated the Dumbarton boy as he gazed wildly at the sketch of the Cutty Sark tattooed on his left arm.

‘That is a recent addition, Ben?’

Ben looks proudly at the tattoo of the famous clipper. ‘Yes, yes, Sam, I only had it tattooed yesterday afternoon. What do you think?’

‘Very eye-catching! Brings back fond memories. Now we may experience seafaring duties again if we are fortunate enough to gain work on the Young Australian.’

‘I am very confident, my friend. We are experienced seagoing men. That will go in our favour, Sam. Within a few days, we will be serving proudly in the steam tug my father had a hand in building.’

‘I hope so, Ben. It would be another proud moment to serve on another British-built vessel.’

After a few hectic days of taking on fresh supplies, the Young Australian steamed away from Port Darwin docks. Jessie Geiling and Beth Mills were amongst the spectators bidding farewell to their boyfriends Ben Fisher and Sam Blain.

Beneath the deck, far from viewing the outside world, Sam Blain and Ben Fisher worked tirelessly in the grimy denizens of the black gangs. Their work was demanding, feeding coal to the furnaces that powered the ship steam tug’s forty horsepower engine. The two Englishmen found it hard to adapt to the extremely torrid conditions.

Sam Blain found out the angry dispirited side of Ben Fisher who was constantly swearing under his breath. And the regular visits of shipmate Les Hawkins didn’t help things. At times, he relayed requests from the captain that he wanted more speed and that more coal was to be shovelled in the furnaces at a greater rate.

Ben Fisher glared at the man Hawkins with disputing eyes. ‘Tell your bloody captain to come down here and shovel himself if the bastard thinks he can do better!’

Hawkins added no further comments. He stepped back with caution from the hot-headed Pommy and rushed back up on deck, pleased that he had relayed the captain’s instructions and no hand was raised against him.

Sam Blain placed a steady hand on his friend’s shoulder. ‘Calm down, Ben, we will be finished with our shift within the hour.’

‘And that won’t come too bloody soon enough, Sam.’

Finally, the completion of their shift did arrive. ‘Come on, Ben, let’s go up on deck and get a little fresh air, it will revitalize our lungs.’

‘Sounds good to me, friend, I have had a gut full of sucking in that blasted coal dust.’

Within minutes, the two stokers are on deck, staring out into the ocean blue. ‘It’s so much more refreshing up here, Ben.’

‘You can say that again! Not like the times on the Cutty Sark raising and lowering sails. We have stepped into fires of hell down there, little did we know what we were in for.’

‘But we’re here now, we might as well work in friendship with our fellow stokers.’

‘Fair comment! The stokers I can stomach, but that water attendant Jason Brown is starting to get my goat. I’m getting sick of his unwarranted comments while we are shovelling our guts out.’

‘It’s all right for him, all the bastard does is maintain steam production in the boiler by regulating the water level and check over a couple of gauges every now and then. If the bludger keeps hanging around, I swear I will shove him in the furnace!’

After five days on the rolling seas, the steam tug arrived at the mouth of the Roper River named by John Roper, a member of Leichardt’s expedition crew back in 1845.

Ben Fisher was standing up on deck, observing the view with friend Sam. ‘She is a mighty river, Ben.’

‘She is indeed, Sam. It flows from a source near the mineral-rich hills of Maranboy to the mouth of the Gulf of Carpentaria, a distance of more than 250 miles.’

‘That is some distance!’

‘Sure is! And good country too. Then it flows through mountain ranges like ‘Red Rock’ in the northern goldfields.’

‘Gold! Do you ever get the urge, Sam?’

‘Sometimes, but for the time being, we will stay with the paddle steamer.’

Sam and Ben were not the only ones observing the scenery. Captain Lowrie was scanning the river. ‘Where is the steamer the Omeo?’ he asked shipmate Hawkins, looking for answers.

‘I don’t know, sir. Captain Calder is supposed to be waiting for us to tow her up the river.’

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‘Surely the 790-ton vessel with a draft of more than fourteen feet would not attempt to proceed up the river.’ James Lowrie shook his head, not at all surprised by the shipmate’s statement.

‘It would not shock me, Hawkins. George Calder is one hell of a crazy man, but we will soon find out, won’t we, Hawkins?’

‘We will, sir, we surely will!’

With careful judgment, the captain steers the tug up the flooded river.

‘I don’t like it, Hawkins, we are sailing blind. Who knows what lies beneath the murky surface?’

‘It’s all risk, sir. I hope the luck of the gods is on our side.’

After two hours of steaming, James Lowrie pointed westward.

‘Do you observe what I am pointed at, Hawkins?’

‘Yes, sir, I can see the masts of a ship above the tree line. I would say it would be just around the next bend in the river.’

‘We will soon find out, Hawkins.’

Finally, the Omeo came into full view. Hawkins’s eyes stirred with concern. ‘Sir, I think she has run aground!’

‘I don’t think, Hawkins, I am dead sure of it! Captain Calder has got some explaining to do.’

The paddle steamer slowly surges past the big cutter, to Hawkin’s surprise.

‘Sir, are we going to stop?’

‘No, Hawkins, we are going to leave the bastards there.’

‘But, sir, the ship is in distress! We cannot just leave her.’

‘I am amazed at your concern, Hawkins. But no, Hawkins, I am not that cruel a man, we must proceed to the depot’s jetty and unload cargo before we can head back to assist the Omeo.’

After unloading her cargo, the Young Australian steamed back to assist the grounded ship. There were many fiery exchanges of words between the two captains before Omeo was eventually towed to the depot jetty.

Over the weeks and months ahead, the Young Australian made many trips back to Port Darwin for supplies and assisted many other cutters, including the Bengal and the Tararua, draining its stock of coal.

Captain Lowrie is discussing the low level of stocks with shipmate Les Hawkins. ‘Our coal stocks are very low, I am afraid, sir.’

James Lowrie shook his head. ‘That is a shame as it is common knowledge that coal is our most efficient source of fuel. But see, we have little in supply. There is no option to go for timber, Hawkins.’

‘So this means the crew going ashore and bending their backs swinging an axe!’

‘That’s what I’m saying, Hawkins.’

‘The men ain’t going to like it!’

‘Like it or not, they will do it, otherwise there is no job on the ship for them.’

‘Right you are, sir. I should go and inform them of the duties.’

When the shipmate finally informed the crew, Les Hawkins was not far wrong when he informed them. There were outcries of cursing and swearing, but the bitching did not deter the captain’s intentions.

The conditions in the bushland were hot and humid; the crew concerned that at any moment, they could be attacked by hostile savages.

Sam Blain turned to Ben Fisher. ‘We did not bargain on this, Ben. The heat is killing me.’

‘Well, Sam, you had better get used to it. Hawkins informed me that there will be many more cutting expeditions as we have to place reserve stockpiles every so many miles along the river.’

‘Thanks, Ben, you really made my day. That is really something to look forward to!’

‘Well, Sam, it is like this, if they keep paying me every week, I will keep on chopping.’

‘Fair comment, my friend, a fair comment!’

Over the weeks, the work placed on the Young Australian was very demanding. They towed further large ships off the hazardous sandbars.

On this certain day, the steam tug was rounding a bend in the river setting on stocking up with timber from their stored woodpiles when the captain noticed the masts of a ship above the trees. When they finally arrived at their destination, they found the crew of the Tararua robbing their stocks. Ben Fisher was outraged. ‘Those bastards are pinching our timber! We sweated our guts out for what? So those bludging pirates can take what they please? There will be blood spilled over this,’ declared the Englishman, trying to get solidarity amongst the crew, and his words had a dramatic effect as most were in agreement. But everyone was amazed when the steam tug just steamed on by.

The captain heard the cries of abuse and frustration and sent shipmate Hawkins to settle down the crew.

‘What in the hell is going on, Hawkins? Are we just going to run like mongrel dogs with our tails between our legs and let those thieving bastards get away with it?’ asked an angry Ben Fisher. Hawkins for a moment waited for calm, then declared the captain’s reason.

‘Captain Lowrie does not want bloodshed. There is enough trouble along the river as it is. The captain is going to send a letter of written protest against such unfortunate behaviour!’

Fisher shook his head with utter despair. ‘What a bloody joke! Next time they are stranded on a sand bar, we leave those bastards there.’

‘That is entirely up to the captain. What is done is done. We will continue on to our next stockpile and fuel up there.’

The crew abided by the captain’s decision, but it took a number of days to get over that drama. The rain finally eased and due to that the transporting of materials to the depot along the river construction of the telegraph line was back in full swing. The completion was only a matter of time away.

The steam paddle tug was very instrumental in the success. It was 29 December when she steamed back down the river towards the mouth where she would assist in another assignment of towing the hedge vessel Springbok back up the river to the jetty. But there was surprise on Captain Lowrie’s face when there was no sign of the Springbok and that another ship was in its place. She sat so gallantly peaceful in the still Roper waters, her towering masks reaching for the heavens. There was a huge degree of excitement amongst the crew of the Young Australian when they observed the name Flying Cloud on the top of the bow of her fine 225-foot streamlined hull.

She was a clipper that stood out against all its rivals as swift as they came. The one reason it was named the skimmer of the seas. Most architectural naval ship ever designed. Built in East Boston, Massachusetts, and launched at the Donald McKay dockyards in 1851, a huge vessel at 1784 tons that could carry cargo of over 2,000 tons. She was a full rigged ship, and masks rake alike bedded to perfection in her superstructured decking.

Ben Fisher, a ship enthusiast, observed the great ship along with Sam Blain and was overwhelmed by its presence. He turned his attention to Sam Blain. ‘This is an extraordinary experience, Sam. We are looking at the finest clipper ship that ever sailed the rolling seas.’

Sam nodded his head affirmatively. ‘She sure does look impressive, Ben!’

Fisher shook his head. ‘Impressive is an understatement! She is the swiftest vessel afloat. Her greatest day’s sailing was 360 miles, breaking many records across the vast oceans of the world, records that many experts predict will never be broken.’

‘That is some prediction, Ben. The captain must have been an extraordinary navigator.’

‘It was not a he, Sam, it was she.’

‘Are you saying it was a woman?’

‘That’s what I am saying, it was the captain’s wife, Eleanor Greesy. She was an inspired person with so many skills, a huge factor in the ship’s record-breaking feats.’

‘That is hard to believe, Ben.’

‘But it is a fact, Sam, she learned so much from her husband, Josiah Greesy, who was a master of the Oneida, sailing the China trade route. She enjoyed a long successful career with him. It is a shame that Captain Greesy died only a few months ago.’

‘So who is the new captain?’

‘I don’t know, but it would be interesting to find out. Well, whoever it is, will have big shoes to fill.’

‘That he has, Sam, that he has!’

It was surely a majestic sight observing the small steam tug towing the American clipper up the river. Everything was going to plan as they approached North Rock Reach, a treacherous part of the river. The usual bearing rocks were not visible due to the unusual high tide. The captain’s eyes were penetrating the course ahead as the sun blazed from a clear blue sky over the rippled water in the distance. Little did the captain know the fate that awaited him. It started with a loud terrifying rumble, then growing to a cracking thunder. Many of its crew were thrown awkwardly onto the deck, some were thrown overboard.

Ignoring the pain from a few bruises, Ben Fisher struggled to his feet. ‘Hang on, Sam, we are about to be rammed by the clipper.’

Smoke from the tall funnel setting a blinding haze, but it was an extraordinary moment of skill when the clipper’s captain steered the mighty ship past without incident. Part of the steam tug sank beneath the water, the port side hung suspended, and its boiler whirled spirals of steam and smoke.

Sam Blain looked upon Ben Fisher with dazed eyes. ‘I am afraid the news is all bad, it’s all over for the steam tug.’

Ben shook his head bleakly, searching for an expression of hope. ‘I would say you are right, my friend, but I’m sure the captain has other ideas.’

Captain James Lowrie could not hide the glint of despair. It seemed like a dark gloom had been cast over his ship. Over the days ahead, he faced many critical decisions one after another. After unloading most of her cargo, the crew used dynamite to blast large chunks of rock from under her bilges, but it was all in vain. There seemed no way of resolving the terrible fate. The Young Australian would die on the treacherous North Rock Reach.

‘So what is for us now, Ben?’ Sam asked bleakly. Ben shook his head slowly. ‘The tragedy of the steam tug is not the end, Sam, there is plenty of other work around the Roper very easily obtained.’

‘But it is the end of our trips to Port Darwin!’

‘So what if it is?’

‘The girls are back there, Ben!’

‘I can’t see any problem. If they think we are worth it, they can come and stay at one of the settlements here.’

‘I can’t see Jessie and Beth doing that.’

‘They will, my friend, I believe they will.’

Chapter 3

Winton, 1874

While the Roper River region in the Northern Territory was under major development, in another part of our continent, progress on the newly formed state of Queensland forged ahead. Ever since the northern region broke away from New South Wales, new settlements in coastal and western regions were born.

One of those new settlements was the little western town of Winton, a town that boomed with prospects. Those bountiful grasslands around her gleamed with brilliance. Grasslands west of what once was called the Ancient Ranges was now known as the Great Divide; bountiful plains spread over the upper and middle sections of the Diamantina and its tributaries that flowed into the vast Lake Eyre.

There are so many tales of how it all began. Scientists claim that millions of years ago, the Winton land was a mass of sea and lakes. A period of geological history, the age of the dinosaur, when large creatures roamed the lakes and swamps at will. Now those creatures had vanished, like the sea itself retreated, from the Diamantina region never to return.

Now it seemed amazing that the land is replaced by rolling plains of rich grassland. Promising land was there for the taking.

The only human inhabitants were the aboriginals; the rivers and the abundant wildlife, a huge factor in their survival. They believed the land was theirs and only theirs. The rich environment had been created purposely for their existence during dreamtime.

The ancient spirits had flourished