Post Script

One gap often left by family history research at the Australian end concerns what happened to the relatives who did not emigrate. Presumably the United Kingdom and Ireland are littered with distant cousins who have no idea of their connections on the other side of the world.

Did the British-born Van Diemonians know when their parents died? Or when their siblings married and had children? Difficult to say.

But amongst the list of letters waiting to be claimed at the General Post Office at the end of June 1838 was one addressed to a 'Richard Higgins'.¹ Presumably the writer had no more precise address than 'Van Diemen's Land' so it was almost the equivalent of launching a message in a bottle. But with the number of family members and connections who ended up in Tasmania it is hard to imagine there was no further communication between them and those left behind in Kent. If the letter was indeed for 'our' Richard we can only hope it found him.

FICTION BITES

Turned Over

'Buggering bastards!' Old Johnno swore on entering the hut. Spartan enough at the best of times the wattle and daub structure had been stripped clean as a whistle. 'Buggering black bastards,' Dick Higgins corrected him, certain it had been a party of natives who had plundered the hut in their absence.

'If I catch them savages they'll wish't they'd never been born' Dick blustered as if the listening bush might relay his threat to the ears of the miscreants. In any event his threat was an empty one. Johnno and Dick still had the muskets they had taken with them that day in case of an encounter with the natives but that was all. Their other weapons and ammunition had been spirited away in the same direction as their spare clothes and a fortnight's rations.

From looking forward to a change out of their wet things and a mug of tea brewed up in the fireplace the two men were reduced to scrounging around outside for something, anything, that would burn. There was barely half an hour before night would fall and leave them cold and in the dark.

As he scrabbled round the base of a dying gum for fallen branches that were more or less dry Dick suddenly thought to check for the tattered letter his mother had sent to him in Maidstone Prison. By what stroke of luck had he taken it that morning from the calico shirt that was now on the back of some black heathen?

'Mam would be old by now … if she ain't already dead' he corrected himself bitterly. Still, he had to admit that things were looking up since Rhoda and his girls had joined him.

One of the two shepherds would have to head back into Hills' at first light for more rations. Dick was fitter and more able to manage the long walk. If he could persuade Johnno to stay with the flock maybe he could snatch a few moments with his daughters. Rhoda might even cook him up some griddle cakes to bring back though she would be after him not to go back into the bush again.

At the thought of his children Dick felt an unaccustomed stab of fear. What if the natives came back? There were stories that some of them knew how to load a musket. Even if not, he had no wish either for a spear through the guts. Sidling into the hut with an armload of wood he struggled to push aside these thoughts but admitted to himself that a man thinks differently once he has a family at his charge. At least his girls were out of harm's way in the town.

Johnno had got a ghost of a fire going but there was nothing to cook over it. Dick could see his companion sizing up Samuel Hill's lambs for the pot but they agreed the risk wasn't worth it. Instead they shared out the last plug of tobacco with due ceremony and settled in to wait for dawn.²

An Accident at the Tea Tree, Monday 16 August 1841

“Ho! Rhoda!” Richard Higgins was jigging about on the back of the cart trying to attract his wife’s attention. After a few drinks he became the boisterous youth who courted her twenty years ago. Rhoda pretended to ignore him, the same as she had back then. And boozing on a Monday night too! A pretty start to the week.

Upset by the racket, the carthorse reared up between the shafts, flinging Richard to the ground. The animal was quickly calmed but the cart had rolled back, pinning its prostrate driver under a wheel.

With Rhoda’s help Tom, the groom, managed to get him free and into the cottage, gasping in pain. Laid on the thin palliasse his breathing was ragged but that might just be his weak chest. They had all had colds this winter in the draughty cottage. Still, Rhoda didn’t like the look of him.

***

Next morning Richard was no better and his breathing had become more laboured despite Rhoda’s attempts to settle him into an easier position.

“I’ll send Tom for the doctor,” she whispered, “as soon as it’s light.”

He seemed about to protest then nodded weakly and took a sip of the broth she offered.

Pushing his horse, Tom made good time into Richmond and by 7.30 was at the doctor’s Edward Street residence. [see photo taken Mar 2017]

“I’ve come from the Tea Tree. My master fell from a cart last night. Mistress says he needs to be bled,” he blurted, somewhat intimidated by the superior being who answered the door.

“Doctor Coverdale is presently unavailable,” intoned the being, adding as instructed, “dispensary hours are from 10 o'clock.”

But Tom stood his ground and left only once the servant promised to pass on the message.

***

At his usual hour John Coverdale MD came downstairs to take tea and a light breakfast. Before donning hat and coat to walk the few paces to his dispensary he asked if there had been any messages.

“Only one sir. A fellow who came in from the Tea Tree. His master wants bleeding.”

“And the master’s name?” Coverdale inquired, piqued not to have had the message earlier.

“I couldn't say sir. A tenant of Mr Cutts I believe.”

Coverdale sighed inwardly at the incompetence of his servant. Without a name he could waste a lot of time looking for the right farm on the Cutts grant. No matter, the fellow would surely call again if the case was pressing.

***

“Tom has been for the doctor,” Rhoda reassured the children when she woke them. Only the youngest girl, Elizabeth, refused to leave her father’s bedside while the others went about their chores.

By midday there was still no sign of Coverdale so Tom was sent again to Richmond. Richard was now feverish and the bruising from the cartwheel an ugly purple.

“Be sure to tell them we can pay!” Rhoda called out after Tom. She had a few coins saved up for emergencies.

As word of the accident got around the Tea Tree most neighbours called in the course of the day for news. Those who looked in on Richard came out grave faced but did their best to hide it for Rhoda’s sake. “Lucky he’s such a strong fellow.” “Take more than a tumble to finish that one off!”

One practical soul offered to take on Richard’s carting contracts “until he gets back on his feet.” Isaac Isles volunteered to go for Surgeon Thomas or find someone else to bleed the patient.

When Tom returned from Richmond a third and final time just on nightfall with an assurance from Coverdale’s servant that “the doctor would attend Mr Higgins presently” Rhoda gave it little credence. She should have gone in herself. But who would have nursed Richard in her absence?

***

Unaware of the servant’s promise it was not until two days later that Dr Coverdale took the Tea Tree road. The doctor had spent the intervening day in bed himself, still weak after a recent bout of fever. “Might as well look in on this fellow, tho’ he’s probably back about his business by now.”

Once across Pages Creek Coverdale knew he was on Cutt’s grant of land. He followed the most trafficked route up from the ford until reaching a low cottage where he dismounted and attached his horse to a sapling.

A woman emerged from the cottage. Mid forties he guessed, handsome for her age despite her reddened eyes.

“Good morning ma’am. Would you be so good as to direct me to the Higgins farm?” He doffed his hat out of habit.

Her reply struck him like a lash. “If you’re here for the inquest, it’s tomorrow.”

 

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