Acknowledgements

This book is mainly fact. Having been brought up on stories about my forebears, I knew the outline of events but had little idea of why or how they occurred. When my father was in his eighties he wrote his autobiography, the first few pages of which he devoted to family history which he had tried to verify by corresponding with his surviving contemporary relatives. His written version consisted of bare facts, most of which I already knew, leaving me wondering why my forebears emigrated to Australia and exactly what they did when they got here.

I knew they had a farm in Ayrshire and that Sara, when her husband was killed by a highway robber, continued her sons’ education. James and David trained as engineers, John as a builder and Robert as a vet. In 1851 James, John, William and Ann emigrated to South Australia, and after two years there moved over to Victoria, settling in Dean, Smeaton and near Allendale where they were joined by the rest of the family. They established a substantial family business controlled by Sara. In the 1893 depression, James and Will lost all their money by investing in an exhausted goldmine. They sold up and paid all their debts. Will was Bungaree Shire Chairman and MLA for Creswick. After returning home from the ANA federation conference in Bendigo he died of erysipelas.

In the Bibliography is a list of books I am greatly indebted to, having used them to get further facts and background. One of my father’s cousins told me the original farm was at New Cumnock and before settling in Victoria they had dug for gold. Since they settled near Ballarat, I assumed that would have been at Ballaarat (as it was then spelt). But after writing that part I learned they struck gold in Bendigo. Not wanting to let the truth get in the way of a good story I have left that part in. The dialogue and details are of course made up but I have tried to express the character and views of each person and his/her setting true to life. Otherwise I have stuck to the truth as far as I could. 

I would like to thank Elizabeth Holmes for her support while I was writing this book and Heather Armstrong for her valuable comments and suggestions after reading an earlier draft of the manuscript.

Prologue

Southern Ocean, 1851

ames lay wide awake in his bunk, his body flung back and forth and from side to side. Sleep was impossible as the little barque pitched and tossed in the mountainous seas. He felt as if he was riding an unbroken horse. In the other bunk lay his wife, her teeth chattering with fear as much as with the cold. He tried not to watch the sickening spiral motion of the lantern hanging from the ceiling. For days now, they had been confined in the cramped little cabin that stank of stale sweat and vomit.

Every time Reliance staggered out of a trough with her bow pointing skyward and she mounted another wave, the following sea submerged her stern, and water spewed into their cabin from around the deadlight clamped over the porthole. Even inside, the noise of the pounding sea, shrieking wind and the battered ship as it strained every fibre became ear splitting. Surely this crescendo could not continue. It must reach its climax.

Besides being scared out of his wits, James felt imprisoned and helpless. In a way, he envied the crew. Though they must be soaked to the skin, half-frozen and nearly swept off their feet in the full, screaming fury of the storm, at least they could see what was happening and were actively fighting to keep the ship afloat and on course, while he lay there like an old man on his deathbed. Perhaps his bunk would be his bier.

Suddenly the Reliance shuddered like a sapling struck by an axe. Above the shriek of the tempest he heard a sound like a pistol shot followed by the crack of splitting timber. James shivered. It sounded like a mast splintering. The gallant little ship could not survive much more of this battering. Almost three weeks had passed since they had sailed from Cape Town, so they could not be far from Adelaide. It would be a cruel fate indeed that would destroy them; after all they had been through and so close to their destination. Was this cabin to be his coffin?

Why had he left a safe, comfortable life in Scotland for this fetid box which was likely to plunge to the bottom of the ocean at any moment? Even if he did reach South Australia safely, his future was far from certain. And he had led his whole family into this. He knew very little about the young colony: his expectations were based on hope rather than on facts. If he did not make a success of the venture he would have to creep back home and face the terrors of the return voyage.

New Cumnock, Scotland
1837
1 (part sample)

hat a perfect day!

One of those rare, balmy summer days, ideal for idling by the river. He inhaled deeply, relishing the familiar smells of the countryside. Earlier in the day a shower of rain had fallen and now the air smelled of moist earth, dead grass and the heady fragrance of summer flowers. A gentle breeze was stirring the leaves of the willows, barely ruffling the grass and only a few scattered feathers of white cloud drifted across an otherwise clear cobalt blue sky. If only his younger brothers, David, John and Will weren’t with him, all this would be James’s idea of heaven, fishing in Afton Water.

This was their own private retreat down the hill from the farm, a picturesque stretch of Robbie Burns’s ‘sweet Afton’ where the stream widened out into a gently flowing pool. By the bank, the water was shallow, softly murmuring over rocks but further out it was quite deep. Willow trees enclosed it and patches of purple heather and yellow broom lined the banks. James felt contented, serene and secure, enjoying the work‑free Sabbath. Although Pa made him do what he saw as his fair share of the farm work after school and through the holidays, on the Sabbath, more from custom than belief, none of the family did any work other than essential chores.

Last Sunday when the boys had come here, they had been caught in a sudden thunderstorm. On their way home, soaked through to the skin with not a single fish between them, John, clumsy as a new‑born calf, had tripped and fallen into a fresh dollop of stinking cow dung, leading to a terrific kerfuffle when they reached home.

Will was the only one actually fishing. Unusually single minded for a ten‑year‑old, he was quietly concentrating on the job in hand, casting a fly where he had seen a ring on the surface of a fish rising and a shadowy movement beneath. So engrossed in his occupation, he was oblivious of the others. John and the family dog, Ben, had both disappeared, David was fiddling with flies and James, tall for his fourteen years, slim and gangling with a thick thatch of unruly brown hair, was lying on the bank. He lay stretched out on his back with eyes closed, completely at ease, basking in the sun’s warmth and listening to the sounds around him. Nearby, with the stream burbling and grasshoppers whirring in the background, a wren trilled the same little run of grace notes over and over. On the opposite bank a blackbird went through his repertoire of melodies, and from high overhead, a lark sang its shrill song.

‘Hey, look what I ha’ caught!’ The excited shout came from the river. James sat up to see Will lift a fine trout onto the bank, a golden beauty, glistening and iridescent.

What a gorgeous creature! he thought, as he watched it fighting for its life.

Will roughly removed the hook from its mouth and, grasping the fish firmly by the tail, callously killed it by dashing its head against a stone. The corpse lay still. James could not bear to watch. He was looking away, across the river, at the insects darting and hovering over the water and the rising fish making circles on the surface like heavy drops of falling rain. As he watched, a fish rose with a faint splash, clear and sharp above the gurgling of the stream.

Will had seen it too. ‘I ha’ fixed a fresh teal and red fly for a bigger one this time,’ he said. Standing up, he cast the fly so that it touched the water a little upstream. It floated down with the current into a ring, a small snout poked up, the fly disappeared and the line tightened as the fish bore down. ‘I ha’ hooked him! He’s hooked!’ shouted Will in his high thin voice. James tried to help him land the fish. ‘Stand back, bide arf, Jamie, while I bring him in.’ He soon had him landed on the bank, another beauty weighing over a pound, as fat as butter. ‘Hold your squirming and twitching,’ squealed Will, trying to grip the slippery fish. ‘Ye’re as slithery as an eel.’

James decided to try his hand at fishing again and joined Will, but further upstream. ‘Pass me that spare rod and the flies,’ he called to David. Carefully he attached a fly to his hook; then cast it towards a ring on the water. A sunbeam passing through the trees overhead shone on the ring at the instant the fly touched it. There was a sudden flash of gold as a trout snapped at the bait, but it had missed it. James deftly cast again.

Before the fly reached the stream, a great trout streaked out of the water and fell back with a splash, taking it with him. James played the fish skilfully; then reeled in his line and hauled him out of the water; a magnificent two pound specimen dripping rainbow drops of water, glittering like spangles in the sunlight. The biggest trout he had caught or seen anyone else catch in the Afton. Too squeamish to kill such a thing of living beauty himself, he let Will deal with it while he received the others’ congratulations. From somewhere close by he heard John shout, ‘Jamie, that’s the biggest trout I ha’ ever seen.’

James looked round to see where the voice was coming from, but he could not see John anywhere. Eight‑year‑old John, independent and adventurous, was in the habit of going off on his own, and suddenly re‑appearing in the most unlikely places. ‘Here I am.’ John, a skinny little boy with black tousled hair and thick eyebrows that ran together, called from above. Looking up, James saw him climbing along a branch of a willow tree overhanging the river.

Now he had some spectators, John tried to stand up on the branch but missed his footing and fell. His breeches caught on a small branch; he hung suspended by the seat of his pants for a moment before the cloth gave way, and he dropped into the stream with a loud splash.

Pandemonium reigned: John splashing and spluttering, the other boys all shouting at once, and Ben, who had suddenly appeared out of the bushes, yelped and barked excitedly. John flapped and floundered his way to the bank where James and David each grabbed an arm and hoisted him up onto dry land.

‘John!’ shouted David, very much the superior elder brother. ‘Ye daftie! Brainless as a headless chicken! Every time we come here ye do som’at daft. Ye ha’ scared awa’ a’ the fish, drenched a’ your clothes, and torn your breeks. Mither’ll be in an unco’ kippage wi’ ye.’

‘W-w-w-why’re ye making such a fash. I-I-I’m n-n-no’ hurt, o-o-only a bit wet,’ said John, none the worse for his dunking, but although he was putting on a brave front, his stuttering betrayed his concern. He stood there shaking himself, like a dog after a bath.

‘Ye’re drenched from your top knot to your toe!’ said James. ‘Ye look like a drowned rat.’

‘I’ll soon dry out.’

‘Ye’ll catch your death o’ cold in those wet clothes, and ye canna go home like that.’ James told him to undress, wring the water out of them, and spread them out to dry. Taking off his shirt, he handed it to John. ‘Here, tak’ this, and wipe yoursel’ dry wi’ it; then sit o’er there in the sun and out o’ the breeze. We can stay here only anither hour or so. Though your clothes willna be dry by then, they willna be dripping wet.

John did as he was told while the others spent the rest of the afternoon fishing, but they did not catch any more, because as David had said, the disturbance had frightened the fish away. As they walked home from the stream, with John shivering and his boots squelching, they discussed the best tactics for protecting him from their mother’s wrath.

‘W-w-whatever I do,’ said John, ‘sh-sh-she’ll find out the truth sooner or later. I-I-I might as well own up straight away.’

‘It’d be better,’ suggested Will, ‘if ye wait ’til ye know she’s in a good mood; then tell her.’

‘I’ll go in first wi’ the fish,’ said James. ‘I’ll keep her talking in the kitchen while ye sneak upstairs and change into dry clothes. Then ye come in and offer to clean the fish for her. When ye give her the gutted fish to cook she’ll be pleased, and ye can then say, ‘By the way, Mither, I had a wee accident. I caught my breeks on a bramble and there’s a wee rip in them.’

By the time they had agreed on the plan they had reached the gate. John went through the garden to slip in by the front door and then dash up the stairs, while the others went round the back to enter through the kitchen. On the way, they passed their sister Ann, milking Bess.

James paused, appreciating the familiar scene; the fourteen-year-old girl, daisy fresh in a blue and white gingham dress with white cap and pinafore, seated on a three-legged stool, with a pail between her knees, her head against the sleek cow’s warm flank, milk spurting into the pail at each stroke of her hands. As she worked, she sang in a soft contralto,

‘The ploughman he’s a bonny lad,

His mind is ever true, jo,

His garters knit below the knee,

His bonnet it is blue, jo;

Sing up wi’ta, the ploughman lad ...’

James took up the song, changing ‘ploughman’ into ‘milkmaid’,

‘And hey the merry milkmaid,

0’ a’ trades I do ken,

Commend me to the milkmaid.’

Ann had not heard the boys approach and she was embarrassed at being caught unawares. ‘That disna’ even rhyme, and ye needn’t misca’ the milkmaid,’ she snapped. ‘Somebody has to do the work while ye boys play.’

Will started the chorus again, ‘Sing up wi’t a’, the milkmaid ...’

He stopped abruptly as a well-directed squirt of milk straight to his mouth caught him in mid‑verse. ‘That’s eno’ fro’ ye, ye wee bit squirt!’ said Ann, and carried on with her milking.

Their father had been watching the boys return from the river. A tall well-built man, with one foot on the bottom rail and his elbows resting on the top one, he was leaning on the fence of the kaleyard after yarding the cattle ready to take to Ayr market in the morning. He anticipated an enjoyable day in town and hoped to get a good price for his cows and dairy produce.

He stood up straight as the boys approached and his ruddy face became stern. ‘’Tis about time ye lads showed up. Though ’tis the Sabbath, there’s still work to be done. Ann’s near finished her share o’ the milking. How many fish did ye catch?’

‘Six trout,’ replied James. ‘Will caught three, John and David one each, and I caught one, a real whopper.’

‘At least ye ha’ no’ wasted your afternoon,’ replied his father. ‘They’ll make a tasty supper.’ Then noticing that John was not with them he asked, ‘Where’s John?’

‘He’s gone inside a’ready,’ replied Will, by this time having wiped the milk off his face and recovered his dignity.

John was unlikely to avoid his father unless he had something to hide. ‘He must be in a hurry,’ said Pa. ‘Why’s he shanked off? I’ll wager he’s up to something; he’s soaking wet or he’s torn his breeks. Ye’d better get these fish scaled and gutted ready to cook.’ He turned away to fill the feed‑boxes with hay.

When the boys reached the kitchen, they found John standing in front of their mother. Tall and sturdy, wearing a plain high-necked grey dress with a white collar, she was sitting by the table. ‘So why ha’ ye changed a’ your clothes then?’ she demanded severely, looking him straight in the eyes which were level with her own. ‘John, I wasna born yesterday, jo. I know ye wouldna change a’ your clothes and come in here sheepish and guilty‑looking if ye’d only torn a wee hole in your breeks.’ It was impossible to escape those cool grey eyes, usually so kind, but now so penetrating. ‘Now ye run along upstairs and fetch me down every stitch ye were wearing when ye left here for the river this afternoon.’ John scuttled out of the room, glad to escape, even temporarily.

His mother, adjusting the combs holding up her thick black hair, turned to the other boys. ‘Hello Jamie, Willie. Ye’re late back, but ye two dinna look as though ye ha’ suffered any mishap. I suppose ye ha’ been putting off leaving the river ’til John’s clothes were dry enough to put back on.’ She stood up. ‘Jamie, as the oldest; I expect ye to look after t’ither three. Ye know as well as I do if ye tak’ your eyes off John he’ll fa’ in the water, trip over, or I dinna ken what. Probably ye were day‑dreaming in the heather while John climbed a tree and fell out o’ ’t into the water.’

James stood there open‑mouthed, taken aback at his mother’s perception, or was it second sight?

How can she know that?

He swung round on Will. ‘Ye dirty little sneakl’ As soon as he said it, he realised Will could not have told her. Will had been standing beside him with milk on his face while he was speaking to Pa. Mother just knew what they did without actually seeing them or hearing them, and Pa had said he’d wager John had fallen in the water. That wasn’t a guess; he knew! His parents must have second sight.

‘Oh Jamie, dinna blame Willie,’ said Mother. ‘Nobody told me, and I ha’ no supernatural powers. I grew up wi’ six brothers and wi’ six sons. I ken the tricks lads get up to. I heard John’s boots squelching on the stairs, and one look at his face told me the rest o’ the story.’ She moved across to the bench by the sink. ‘Now let me see the fish ye ha’ caught.’

Much relieved at the change of subject, James opened the creel, proudly and carefully laid the fish on the bench. Though an impressive array, they were no longer fresh and glistening, and they felt gummy like cold porridge.

‘Willie caught all these, these two are Davie and John’s,’ and like Mary showing baby Jesus for the adoration of the Magi, he displayed his prize, ‘I caught this one.’

‘What a braw trout, Jamie! Ye caught a’ these, Willie? There’s enough here for a good satisfying supper for us a’.’ Sara turned to John who had crept quietly into the kitchen and was standing in the background, trying to escape his mother’s attention. ‘John, take these out and gut them at the pump in the yard,’ she said, getting a knife out of the drawer. As she handed it to him, she noticed the wet clothes he was holding and her voice became severe. ‘Afore ye gang awa’ let me see these duds o’ yourn. Argh! Put these boots by the ingle to dry, no’ too close to the fire, or ye’ll crack the leather; the sark and stockings can go to the wash. Now let me look at these breeks.’

John reluctantly handed them over. She held them up to the light, revealing a huge rip. ‘Hout, they’re a’ muddy as well as torn. Is this what ye ca’ a wee rift? Ye could put your head through it. Well, I canna gi’e ye new breeches every day. Ye’ll just ha’ to wear these wi’ a big patch, and if the other lads tease ye, it should teach ye to ha’ more care.

Ye’re to stay away fro’ the river for the rest o’ the summer, d’ye hear. If your father sees these he’ll thrash your dowp.’

Poor John looked so crestfallen that she softened. Lifting up his chin, she bent down and kissed him on the cheek. ‘Now be off wi’ ye, and make a good job o’ those fish,’ she said.

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