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  The Death of Beatrice Mayhew

  — Janet Lowe

  I am aware of light and dark but time no longer has meaning.

  I know when the children visit; there is light. Sometimes others bring it.

  There is light now.

  History tells that only one woman is buried in Adelaide Gaol.

  History is wrong.

  I was born Beatrice Margaret Mayhew, in the year of our Lord 1843 to good, hard working mining folk from Moonta in the province of South Australia. They were without shackle or penalty as they walked from The Trader Hall, one December morning in 1842, with thoughts of making a better life in the colonies. Like all migrating to South Australia, they were free settlers and soon after arriving in Port Adelaide, they made their way north to the copper mines.

  In 1851, father left the copper mines in search of gold in Ballarat, and well he did too. Come the beginning of 1852, mother, younger sister Elspeth and I were with him amidst the hustle and bustle of the goldfields. It was a place of great excitement for me and I befriended many from places of which I had never heard. Such sights and such smells I could not have imagined. I felt well at ease in our paperbark shanty and although, never short of dust and flies, it was a grand home compared to the tents in which some lived.

  Then darkness fell upon our family. Dysentery took Elspeth from us before the Easter of that year and many shared our loss. Mother had never found true contentment on the goldfields and father’s dig site was fast drying up. Even the birth of baby Michael the following year did nothing to heal the pain. Father spent his every waking hour at his diggings while mother turned to the locally brewed ‘grappa’ to cope.

  But worse was ahead. Mother deserted us and journeyed back to Adelaide with Michael, leaving me alone with father in a place fast becoming hell. I would never see either of them again.

  In November of 1854, I saw angry diggers throwing pieces of paper in a huge fire that had been built in the centre of the settlement. There was much yelling and discord about and even as a child I knew well enough there was trouble afoot.

  In the early morning of December 3rd, my childhood was shattered in ways I never dreamed possible. Troopers and soldiers alike attacked us with great ferocity and the sounds of rifles and yelling was deafening. I thought it would never end, but in truth, it took less than thirty minutes for the law to win and an uneasy calm to return.

  The Eureka Stockade Rebellion as it was to be called was over.

  Amidst the quiet I heard movement close-by. Had it have not been for our kindly neighbour, Mr Cullinan, dragging me out, I surely would have been burnt alive where I stood. Outside, a trooper with torch in hand was fire to my home. On seeing us flee that same trooper viciously pulled us apart and before my very eyes, beat dear Mr Cullinan so savagely that would never again draw breath. The deed done, the trooper disappeared into the bush like the coward, he was, with men hard after him.

  Father and I had survived and we gladly took refuge in an empty tent in the days following the mayhem. To whom it belonged we neither knew, nor cared, and no-one returned to claim it as theirs. Again we had a roof over our heads, albeit it a leaking one.

  The week after we took residency my childhood came to brutal end.

  Alone in our tent, a familiar face came calling. At first I could not place the dishevelled, bearded tramp that walked uninvited into the tent; then horror crept into my bones. No longer in uniform, the devil in front of me was the trooper who had so mercilessly killed Mr Cullinan.

  Filthy and reeking of drink, he was upon me within seconds and threw me down on the camp bed where he forced himself into me. When he had finished, he left me lying bleeding, in pain, and forever barren from the injuries imposed.

  A passing woman heard my cries and attended to me before raising the alarm. The men of the settlement rallied around and in no time had hunted down and dispatched my attacker.

  Never again did I hear a word spoken about what happened that day or the summary justice dealt.

  I was administered morphine to help with the physical pain, but it did little for what lay inside. Time passed and my taking of morphine became a daily ritual.

  Never again would I be that happy, carefree daughter, Father had come to rely on. Thinking it best, he found me work as a kitchen hand in a home in Melbourne soon after my fifteenth birthday. I readily agreed and planned to leave that life behind and all it contained. But of course, that could never be.

  My position with the God-fearing Newland family offered me a sound roof over my head and good food in my stomach, but the loneliness and my ever increasing need for morphine tempted me into parts of Melbourne Town where a young lady should never venture. With the devil on my shoulder I took up company with a bad sort and by the age of 17, I was well known to the law.

  My time with the Newlands came to a not unexpected end and I found myself out on the streets. With what little money I had, I made my way back to South Australia. After all, had my parents not journeyed there for a new start themselves all those years earlier?

  In Adelaide I found work cleaning in hotels and rented a room at a guesthouse for young women. Through my acquaintance with one of these women, Sarah, I also found a doctor who was more than willing to take care of my need for morphine. Payment was made on the bed in his surgery. My need for medication overrode my fear of men and with courage obtained from a gin bottle; I made my first payment of many.

  My fondness for Sarah grew as did my hatred of men. Together we plied our trade around town and those who sought our feminine talents paid dearly. Our medical friend put us in contact with other like-minded associates of varying occupations and standing within the community.

  Money came and money went but the need to fill our wardrobes and bellies, not to mention the pockets of our landlord, was nothing compared to the demands made on us by our true master; addiction.

  Arrests were common enough and over the years the Adelaide Gaol became so well known to me that I claimed the most suitable cell as my own. Heaven help any other wretched misfit whom I found in residence on my arrival.

  The Reverend Hugo Wakelin administered to the spiritual wellness of any and all who found themselves within the walls and believed none were above redemption. He had almost restored my faith when one day, after returning from a short stay at Her Majesty’s Pleasure, I was told of the death of my beloved Sarah at the hands of one of her regular gentlemen.

  Time after time I had warned Sarah away from the Judge, but the money was too good and the injuries received minor and quick to heal. We had planned to build up a purse sufficient enough for us to move far away. A new life together.

  Now, this would never be.

  There was not enough gin to console me and I attended the Court House in full flight demanding the Constabulary lock up Judge Stanley Cooper-Jones for the murder.

  Thereafter each gin sodden attendance at the court earned me longer gaol sentences, but this did not deter me. Two years into my mission, I ended up in conversation with a young journalist by the name of Jonathon Sharpe. Jonathon was a brave young man with a keen eye and the mind to go places. He intended to look into Sarah’s murder, whom he believed was not the first.

  My blood ran cold on hearing his words and I swore the judge would feel justice by my hand if no other. But how?

  I gave Jonathon what help I could, believing that the words of an educated writer could and would be acknowledged above the ramblings of an aging, drunken whore. I sought out many an individual and was warned off with both words and force many times. Blinded by revenge and fuelled by booze, I paid no heed.

  In December 1873 I was back in gaol and met by chance, one Lizzy Woolcock. Sentenced to death for poisoning her husband with mercury, I only had limited time to speak with her and always with a turnkey nearby. A more unlikely murderer I had never come across. She knew little of her poison of choice although she was able to impart from where it could be freely obtained.

  A plan was forming whereby
the judge would pay for his deed. Somehow I would make this happen.

  The following night I was woken from a sound sleep by a visitor to my cell. On hearing a key at the lock I woke, sleepily thinking it was dawn. But no. The hour was too dark and the air too still. A familiar feeling of terror from a childhood memory long buried surfaced. I had no time to raise myself fully from my cot, before the black form pounced upon me and held something tight across my face. Forcing me down, he kneeled astride me. Tortured memories flooded into my mind and I froze where I lay waiting for the pain to start. But there was none.

  Too late I got the courage to fight for my life. My strength was eddying away fast and my panicked, pitiful grabs for the hands smothering me were useless.

  As darkness came, I though again of my darling Sarah.

  Dr Jackie Woodroffe stepped out from the excavation pit and balanced herself on the remaining floor boards of what was once the prison laundry and latrines. The archaeological dig in the grounds of the Old Adelaide Gaol and Museum had been going perfectly.

  Until now.

  She stared transfixed at the freshly exposed female pelvis and called to her assistant. “Kevin, I need you to take some photos. Then I need you to call the police.”

  Historical note: Elizabeth Lillian Woolcock was the only woman to be hung and buried at Adelaide Gaol. Her early life inspired the character of Beatrice Mayhew.

  Writing had been on Janet Lowe’s ‘to do’ list for years. In the beginning of 2010, she began to put pen to paper and the fictional characters inhabiting her imagination, began to appear in print. Beatrice Mayhew is one such character, born out of a Ghost Tour taken by Janet of the old Adelaide Gaol in South Australia.

  Ace of Spades

  — Peter Rondel

  Somewhere out near Boulder there’s a rusty spade. I mention it because it’s significant in the history of the gold rush days. I’m probably one of the few who knows about it now. You could pass it a hundred times and never notice it there beside the old track. The blade is stuck in a large boulder, rather like Excalibur, as my grandfather had described it. I’ve never tried to extract it and never would. It’s the way it came to be stuck in that great piece of rock that makes it special. I came to know about it from my grandfather. It was his father, my great grandfather, who owned that old spade and the story that goes with it.

  Back when Kalgoorlie was a thriving King Solomon’s mine, so to speak, my great grandfather spent the last of his meagre savings on a few tools and enough stores to last about three months. He’d heard about the gold finds out there and decided to grab a piece of the fortune. Like so many others, he wasn’t really prepared for the territory, the weather, or the work. Oh, he did find gold, enough to fill his old snuff box, but it took months of digging to do it. He traded it in and bought more provisions then went back to his site. Each time he collected enough gold to do so, he went back to Boulder and sold it.

  I first heard the story when I was twelve. My grandfather and my father were sitting on the verandah steps drinking beer. I knew it was rude to eavesdrop, but something that my father asked really caught my imagination. “So, did he actually find any gold?”

  Granddad took a long drink from his beer mug and laughed. “Yep. Never more than you could hold in a matchbox, in fact he stored it all in an old snuffbox. That was the only thing left, that snuffbox — still got it to this day. If you want it, I’ll bring it up next visit.”

  “What about his wife? She never went out there?”

  “Not on your life. Too fond of discipline. She was influenced by Edith Cowan. She was a strong, no-nonsense woman, while he’d do anything for a laugh. I think Dad got fed up with her controlling ways and lack of humour. It came down to a choice of running off to sea or gold prospecting. He used to get seasick so the gold was a better option. Paddy Hannan had struck gold out Kalgoorlie way and as always happens, things got exaggerated and tales of big gold strikes were attracting people from all over the place.”

  “What did his wife have to say about it?”

  “Nothing. She woke up one morning and he was gone. With me and my brother to raise, she wasn’t too impressed. Her mood did improve a bit when Dad managed to send some small nuggets back to her. She took up teaching down in Fremantle to pay the bills.”

  “So what became of him? I take it he never made his fortune?”

  Granddad slowly stood up. “Hang on, I’ve got something that should interest you.”

  He went into the house and re-emerged with a cardboard cylinder. “Take a look at this.”

  My father slid a roll of paper out of the tube and unrolled it. “It’s a map.”

  “That’s the location of his old dig. It was registered at the local office and when it all happened, they sent it down to my mother. I don’t think she even looked at it — just threw it into a drawer and left it there.”

  “Have you ever tried to find it?”

  “I did once, a good few years ago. Took three days to find it; I only knew for certain that it was the right place when I found what was left of his hat, wedged in the fork of a tree. It still had his name inside on the hatband.”

  “Did you find anything else?” By then I had moved closer, trying not to be noticed. I didn’t want to miss a word.

  “That’s the main part of this story. The actual dig is now just a hole in the ground about fifteen feet deep. It’s overgrown with weed now. About fifty feet away is a group of big boulders, just sitting there like someone had dropped them there. Anyway, the biggest of them had a spade stuck in its side. Jammed in there forever I reckon, just like Excalibur.”

  “How did it come to be like that?”

  “Well, after about three years, Dad started to go a bit troppo, you know, talked to himself all the time and never seemed to recognize anyone when he came in to Boulder — not even at the pub. Others recognized the signs but couldn’t do much. I got the drum from an old feller in the pub there. He told me what happened.”

  Granddad noticed me in the corner and waved a hand in the direction of the back yard. “I think you should go and cut some fire wood down near the shed, young fella.”

  I remember that day like it was yesterday. A big mob of cockies were flying from tree to tree and making a heck of a din. Dad seemed unusually intolerant and threw a stick up at them but they didn’t seem to notice, in fact they made even more noise.

  Granddad died a couple of weeks later. It seems that he knew that his visit that week was to be his last. It took me nearly twenty years to uncover the truth. I’d come across that old map and as the days passed, my curiosity got the better of me. Armed with the map and no idea of how I would find the site, I drove out to Kalgoorlie where I eventually did find it. It was several miles east of Boulder in an area now owned by a big mining company. There wasn’t much to see, just a big hole in the ground that never led anywhere and that great boulder with the spade still stuck in it. The metal fitting that once held the handle was rusted away and the shaft was split and bleached white.

  The Registrar’s Office was open and smelled of antiquity; that old-wood smell that only comes with age. The wooden floor had worn to a hollow just inside the door and a well-worn track was trodden into it, leading to the counter. The computer seemed very much out of place on that old desk. The man who sat behind it looked up as I entered, staring at me through a very powerful pair of spectacles. He looked more like an undertaker and I surmised that back in those old days, he probably would have been.

  “Can I help you?” he intoned, looking thoroughly bored.

  “I hope so. I’m researching my great grandfather’s history. He once had a mine east of Boulder. I just want to know what happened to him.”

  The man got up. He had something to take an interest in, at last. “What was his name?” He moved to the computer and sat down.

  “McLauchlan – Andrew McLauchlan. Eighteen ninety four I think.”

  “Let’s see what we can find.” He set the computer to search and stood up.
>
  He seemed like a different man now, quite happy in fact. I heard him talking to himself as he sat down at the desk and read through the papers that the computer had produced. He took his time and grunted occasionally as he read. Eventually he stood up and handed me the papers. One page was of particular interest. It was a small article from the newspaper of the time. Great Granddad had chosen to follow in the footsteps of several other miners when he lost everything in a poker game. The hole in the ground at the old site was made when he sat on a case of dynamite and lit the fuse. It was that explosion that drove the spade into the rock and completely evaporated everything that had existed on that spot. I was shocked to learn that a number of miners were known to have done the same thing. Disappointment and loneliness eventually got too much for some and they chose that way to end it.

  This then was the topic of conversation all those years ago, when I was banished from the scene and sent to chop firewood. Perhaps they were right; the story may well have given me nightmares. I’ve got a large photo of that spade in the rock, in a frame on the wall; it’s a great conversation-starter.

  Historical note: I became intrigued with the history of Kalgoorlie and Boulder after chatting to some of the residents. In particular, the method some prospectors and miners chose to end their lives. Rather than present it as a documentary, I chose to write it as fiction in the first person, trying to present some of the difficulties faced by the early adventurers.

  Peter Rondel writes: I was born in 1941 and ran off to sea on my fifteenth birthday, after which I spent nine years in the army. I took up writing in 2000 after five heart attacks left me little else to occupy myself. At the age of sixty I started at university and achieved a BA in writing after three years. I recently had a children’s book published in America and this is now available on Amazon, A Magpie called Will.