SWAN RIVER SETTLEMENT One Man's Journey: A fascinating historical journey from Ireland through Victorian England to the remote colony of Western Australia

By Michael Le Page

Michael Le Page studied the early history of Western Australia in addition to his family history for over twenty years and found certain areas were shrouded in mystery. He finally discovered after much research that he is a fifth generation Australian on his father's mother's side of the family. Little was said of this side of the family over ma

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael and Maria Le Page Family Trust
• Release date: Aug 5, 2022
• ISBN: 9780645535013

Michael Le Page

Michael Le Page lives in Perth, Western Australia. This is his second book. He is a writer and has lived and worked in Australia, Indonesia, Singapore, and the United States of America. He studied the regional history of this era and became captivated by the life and times of John Arnold and his family. While Michael never met them, they left enough footprints on this world for him to follow.

Book preview

1

The decision

It was a bitterly cold, bleak day when John was born in Dromore Parish, Down, Ireland to John and Elizabeth Arnold in the winter of 1815. It was a birth at home with Elizabeth’s friend Catherine who lived in the adjacent farm. The local experienced midwife was also in attendance. It was Elizabeth’s third child, so the experience was not new to her, and having a midwife and friend helping resulted in a complication free birth. Young John was healthy with his head already covered with fine auburn hair, the colour of his mother’s. His father was working in the fields of the family farm just on the outskirts of the small market town they called home. Men did not get involved in the birth of a child, so John stayed away as did the six and four-year-old sons Henry and Thomas, but they all meandered around close to the farmhouse until they received a shout from Catherine. They rushed over and stood at the doorway. John held his old cap in heavily calloused hands and in his soiled working clothes he looked at his third child. He had secretly hoped it would be another son so he could teach him the ways of the world with the two older boys and in time provide help in the fields as it was demanding, challenging work.

The farm was small, and John raised a few cows, pigs, some chickens and kept several large vegetable plots where he grew crops including potatoes for the family and for sale at the town’s market square on Saturdays. He also sold eggs, milk and meat into the surrounding areas. It was a small but honest subsistent livelihood.

Dromore was an old, small town in the north of Ireland southwest of Belfast. The name is from Gaelic, Droim Mort meaning large ridge The original village of Dromore started around the site of a sixth century monastery founded by St Colman. In the nineth and tenth centuries the Vikings plundered the town and in the 1170s the Norman invaders, who were essentially from the Normandy region in northern France, built the fort. However, by the 1550s there were no significant buildings in Dromore except some old, thatched homes, a ruined church and the crumbling remains of the Dromore Castle. By the time John Arnold was born there were 360 inhabited houses and 1860 inhabitants living on both sides of the river Lagan. The roads throughout the town were narrow, and about half the houses had thatched roofs, the remainder used slate. The houses in Market Square and in the street between the square and the church were mostly neat and built of stone or stone and brick. The markets were held every Saturday. The only significant industry in the town was linen manufacturing. There was also a mill located next to the river for milling grains after the annual harvest. It was powered by an old wooden water wheel that turned all year around. Life was simple – pleasant, slow paced and driven by the day-to-day needs of food, clothing, and shelter.

There is a long history of the production of linen in Ireland. In 1685, some Huguenots who fled France settled in the north of Ireland. In France, troops ravaged their villages on an order from the king and up to 12,000 people were rounded up into camps, where many starved to death. The departure of the Huguenots was a disaster for France. Huguenots were particularly successful in the textile industry and were reliable skilled workers. They were also generally well educated and had the ability to read and write, and they brought with them the advanced skills for linen production. Many settled in the town of Lisburn near Dromore which resulted in Lisburn becoming perhaps the most famous linen producing centre in all of Ireland. When John was born most of the world’s linen was produced in Lisburn and its surroundings like Dromore where at least three hundred people worked from home making handloom linens. It was also an enormous benefit to the education of the townsfolk in Dromore as literacy skills became more encouraged in the schools.

Mary and John’s family farm was just outside the village. Their house was a small one-room cottage made of local timber and stones with a packed earth floor and thick thatch roof to keep the house warm in winter and the rain out. It had some windows for light. At the back wall was a fireplace over which an iron pot was suspended. They also owned a small wooden table, some chairs plus some rudimentary stools, cupboards and bedding. Mary was a short, thin but imposing five-foot tall lady with striking green eyes which complemented her long auburn hair. Her husband John was five and a half feet tall with blue eyes and ginger red hair which was prematurely receding at the front and thinning at the back. Like most men he wore a beard which was starting to show signs of grey. He was a strong man from all the manual labour he did on the farm and his heavily calloused hands showed he worked hard to survive. His one pastime was playing the Celtic fiddle which is like a violin. He could not read music, but his father had taught him to play the fiddle by ear from an early age and John planned to teach his young boys as well. In fact, he had already started with the older boys Henry and Thomas. As young John grew up his mother liked to sing to him and the other children. She had a beautiful voice that gave her much joy, and she particularly enjoyed singing hymns to her sons before they went to sleep in the evenings. Her favourite was an old cradle song:

Sleep, my babe, lie still and slumber,

All through the night

Guardian angels God will lend thee,

All through the night

Soft and drowsy hours are creeping,

Hill and vale in slumber sleeping,

Mother dear her watch is keeping,

All through the night

God is here, you’ll not be lonely,

All through the night

‘Tis not I who guards thee only,

All through the night

Night’s dark shades will soon be over,

Still my watchful care shall hover,

God with me His watch is keeping,

All through the night

John would smile at his mother and even his first words came out like a little song. The church was a big part of the Arnold family and each Sunday throughout the year, regardless of the weather, they would walk together into town to go to the church service at Dromore Cathedral on Church Street. It was Church of Ireland. The Catholics also had a church nearby at the corner of Banbridge Road with a small cemetery next to the river. It was a roughcast stone building only one hundred feet long and was built originally in 1661. Mary loved going to church as it was an opportunity to catch up with her friends and sing in the choir. While the choir was dominated by men, she had an exceptional voice, so she could participate. They did not have an organ, but the parish was discussing the potential to buy one and had started to collect money for it. John was not that religious and while he was raised and married in the church, he kept his distance and rarely went in. Occasionally when it was raining, he would sit quietly at the back of the church during the service to avoid the rain. The tall, lean reverend would see him there, nod and hope that someday John might re-join the fold.

When young John was five years old, Mary would take him with his brothers to the church school. It was a one-room, old, rundown stone building with a thatched roof but the teachers, whilst strict, taught the young children the things Mary thought were vitally important and did so with compassion, patience and a touch of discipline if any of the children were disobedient. The education was based on the Bible as it was one of the few books they possessed, and they instructed the children about what was right, what was wrong and the Ten Commandments. Every session started with prayers and a reading from the Bible. This was followed with the singing of a hymn. Sometimes they would tell the children stories about people like Abraham, Moses, Jesus, and Mary. John loved the story about the Good Samaritan and the singing.

Mary also wanted John to be able to read, write and learn numbers like his brothers. Simple things like how to add up and take away could sometimes be complicated to her. Mary believed if her children could read and write and be good with numbers it would make her so proud and help them in life. Mary was illiterate and understood literacy and numeracy were vital to do well in life. After school in the morning, they would walk home along the river talking and singing along the way. That walk was one of John’s fondest memories of his childhood and one of the daily experiences that Mary treasured, her son’s little hand in hers as they walked alongside the river. After the walk and a simple meal, the boys would help their dad in the fields to the best of their ability. They loved being with their dad working beside him, looking up to him. Their dad was a quiet, strong man. He did not drink as his father was a big drinker and it left him with some sad memories of his upbringing. While drinking was a thing that many men did, he never drank. Mary loved him for that as well. Times were tough as it was, but a non-drinking household was a blessing. Sometimes in the evenings and on Sundays John would bring out his fiddle and play some favourite Irish ballads to which they would all sing. Over time young John and his brothers would play the fiddle as well.

When John reached the age of eleven, he was the oldest in the school and had mastered reading and writing so much so that he would be asked to read the prayers each morning to the younger children and helped the teachers explain simple words and pronunciation to the younger children. Numbers had come to him easily, so Mary would get him each Saturday to count the money they earned from the markets and subtract it from what it cost to buy things for the farm. The older brothers had now left school and were helping their dad on the farm.

One Sunday a lady noticed young John at church and heard from her friends that he was respectful, diligent, obedient and clever at school so she asked Mary if he could work for her husband in making high-quality linen. He was looking for a youth to learn the trade – help, clean, fix things when they broke and package up the product for sale. Unfortunately, they did not have any children and many people in Lisburn wanted his linen as they regarded it as high quality.

Mary was perplexed. She rushed home to see her husband and they discussed this at length into the evening. John needed the help on the farm because he was getting older, but the older boys were already helping, and they also could do with an income in cash from working outside the farm. It was also a promise of a good life for their son as the work could lead to John buying his own loom and house and make linen for himself. Finally, they decided it was the best thing to do provided John still had some time to help with the farm.

John’s father’s advice to him on his first day was, John, wherever you work arrive a bit early, leave a bit later than required, work hard, do real quality work and learn to get better at what you do. Implement this advice and you will always be successful.

As time progressed John became very skilled at operating and maintaining the loom, packaging up the precious linen and dispatching it to customers. He was quick and skilful with his hands, and his master, whilst a disciplinarian, taught him well. The work room was always spotlessly clean and organised. The linen they produced was of excellent quality and in much demand. Despite his skill, John’s pay was low, and the hours were long but he was comfortable with his lot in life and still found time to work on the farm with his father.

In Ireland, at this time, a middleman system existed for managing landed property. In John’s family’s case the owner of the farm – and many around the district – lived in England. John’s father did not own the farm, so he paid rent to the owner’s agent or middlemen as they were known. From this, the owner received a regular income as did the agent. Their agent was James Jones who whilst he was fair and helpful, he still regularly reminded John’s father that the owner expected his payment without fail. The Irish, like John’s family, effectively lived a subsistent livelihood near to poverty and it was a constant strain to pay James Jones and live. John’s apprentice wage helped but the farm livelihood was weather dependent and any disruption to farm crop yields or an illness amongst the cattle or other farm animals could easily cause disaster. Consequently, while there was much love in the close-knit Arnold family, John’s father was constantly concerned about any pending disaster.

One evening when John was returning home from his work in the village, he could see his father in the distance ploughing a field and his brothers working farther afield. He noticed for the first time in his life that there was no smoke drifting from the chimney of the house which was situated just off the narrow laneway ahead. Everything was eerily quiet. Even the birds seemed to have stopped singing. Normally he would hear his mother quietly singing to herself as she got the household ready for the evening meal when John and the family would return. The closer he came to the house the more he sensed something was amiss. He could understand that the younger children may be over in the adjacent farm playing so there would be no noise from them. But it was eerie. There was no sound, no activity and no smells of a meal cooking on the stove. He opened the front door and peered inside. Nothing but silence.

As he investigated the semi-darkness towards the unlit fireplace where the old cast iron pot hung, he saw his mother lying motionless on the floor. Her lovely auburn hair, which was now streaked in grey, spread out around her head. She was still, silent and pale. He rushed over and touched her hand and face. She was cold, icy cold. His hand pulled back in fear as he did not know what to do. Here was the person he loved the most in the world lifeless on the floor. A loud cry came from his mouth and tears started streaming down his face. He dropped his old leather bag onto the floor scrambled out of the house, and ran over to where his father was working. When he reached his father, the words could not come out and he started crying more in anguish and pain. Finally, he said the words, Mamaí is dead on the floor in the house!

The pain for the family in the aftermath was enormous. The person who loved, cherished, and encouraged them all through their lives was gone. They did not get to say goodbye or tell her one more time they loved her. His father had gone quiet in his sorrow, and he went through the motions of talking with the priest and preparing the funeral. Catherine, the neighbour, was an immense help and assisted them through those dark days. At the funeral, many people said how wonderful she was, how beautiful a singer she was, and most importantly, that she was a loving wife and mother. The words whilst appreciated washed over all the family and their father in their sorrow. As they stood next to her grave adjacent to the church it started to rain and slowly the large crowd of dark-clad mourners drifted away. As they stood there silent with their heads bowed, more tears ran down their cheeks. Catherine came over to young John and pressed a piece of paper in his hand. She repeated how sorry she was, put her arm around his shoulders and then slowly walked away.

After a while John looked at the piece of paper and saw that she had written the words of a well-known poem.

Do not stand at my grave and weep

Do not stand at my grave and weep,

I am not there…I do not sleep.

I am the thousand winds that blow…

I am the diamond glints on snow…

I am the sunlight on ripened grain…

I am the gentle autumn rain.

When you waken in the morning’s hush,

I am the swift uplifting rush,

Of gentle birds in circling flight…

I am the soft star that shines at night.

Do not stand at my grave and cry,

I am not there…I did not die…

(Source – public domain)

After the loss of their mother, life was never the same on the farm. All the beauty in the household diminished with her passing. John’s father continued to work hard to keep the farm going. John’s older brothers helped enormously, and John continued to work at his job. All the wonderful things that Mary did – the cooking, cleaning, washing, mending the clothes, tending to the chickens and other animals – were taken up by John’s younger sisters Marianne, Mary, and Charlotte. John and his brothers had now grown into men and their faces were darkened with beards. John and his older brothers were medium height and built like their father. John was strong from the farm work but nimble, organised, and detail-oriented from his linen-making training. His auburn hair was now fair, his white face which was now covered with his beard was covered in freckles from too much time working outdoors. He was a trusting young man. Some would say he was not worldly wise or street smart. He told the truth and if he did lie even about something small, a day or so later he could not help himself or live with himself so he would confess and apologise. He and his brothers had learned to play their father’s fiddle and their singing provided some entertainment on Sundays in an otherwise sombre house.

As the three brothers wanted to earn some extra money, they all managed to find some work at the grist mill as well as doing their normal work on the farm – or for John at the linen factory. They applied their father’s advice to, Arrive a bit early, leave a bit later than required, work hard, do real quality work and learn to get better at what you do. This brought extra money into the family as well as some small money for themselves. The grist mill was on the edge of town near the river. It was used to process corn and other grains during the harvest season. Farmers brought their grain to the mill where it was ground into meal or flour for a fee. The mill was built a few miles from the village and supported by the farmers as the local community depended on the mill for flour which was a staple part of the diet.

The mill in Dromore was water-powered, where a sluice gate opened to allow water from the River Lagan to flow past a water wheel and make it turn. The water wheel was mounted vertically with the bottom edge in the water. It drove a large gearwheel which drove the millstones which were laid one on top of the other. The bottom stone was called the bed and was fixed. The top stone was called the runner and it rotated to grind the grains between the two stones. The distance between the stones varied to produce the required grade of flour, so if the stones were moved closer together, a finer flour was produced. The driving mechanism from the water wheel could be disconnected from the stones and connected to a sieve to refine the flour, or for turning a drum to wind up a chain used to hoist sacks of grain to the top of the mill. All three brothers learned the milling trade and after a while they could run the mill themselves – receive the grain, hoist it to the top floor and feed it into the mill, run it through a series of sieves and finally pack it up in woven bags. Given their farm upbringing they were also adept in maintaining the water wheel and mill.

One day when John’s father was working in the farm, he inspected a section of the potatoes and he noticed for the first-time brown freckles on the leaves, some with brown patches and a yellowish border spreading from the brown patch. He immediately knew what it was as the people in the neighbourhood had heard of this from some other regions. He immediately started to dig to see what the potatoes were like, and most were starting to rot and smell. This had not happened to him before, but he knew multiple potato crops, which were the staple crop of Ireland, had failed in 1832, 1833, 1834, and 1836 due to dry rot and curl. In 1835 the potato crop failed almost completely in Ulster. So, while John had been careful, this year the rot had infected his crop as well. The rumour in the town was that two main potato plant diseases had been identified. One was called dry rot or taint, and the other was a virus