We are pleased to have another excellent story and verse by Ray Jackson – This is what he tells me about it:
In 1897 both of my Great Grandfathers on my mother’s side, brought their families to Kalgoorlie to live. George Nankiville came from Berrima in NSW with his wife Sarah and my Grandmother Myra and her brothers.
Andrew Bruce came from Broken Hill in NSW with his wife Sarah and my Grandfather William (Bill) and his brothers and sisters. Also, Andrews mother Jane, his sister Jane and her husband and children. I am writing a series of poems and short stories about my family and some of the interesting lives they led.
This following is based on the account of the death of one of Andrews brothers taken from newspaper articles of the day and the Coroners report.
Photo by Roger Garwood
Death of a Bushman
From Broken Hill in New South Wales the two Bruce brothers rode,
to Charleville in far Queensland to live the bushman code.
These two were born of pioneer stock and keen to leave their name
upon the land but neither man had notions of great fame.
Work was scarce and times were tough but the bush life’s call is strong,
to leave the town and head outback to live where they belong.
At last a job was promised them if they could go next day,
to Millie Station on the track out Adavale way.
Both men were well respected as Shearers of renown,
and had no equals of their skill in any outback town.
On Millie Station burr and fly had hit the sheep flock hard,
so all the stock was mustered up and waiting in the yard.
The Shearers knew the days ahead would surely test their skill
but at the end with a job well done their bank account would fill.
With horses packed and gear stowed they had a night of rest,
not knowing that the coming day would be an awful test.
A stockman rode out with them, George Chaplain was his name,
back out to Mount Morris, the place from where he came.
Three men left from Charleville but one would not come back,
left alone beneath the sand of the Millie Station track.
It was early in the morning beneath a cloudless sky,
with not a hint of rain in sight they bid their mates goodbye.
On to Adavale they rode the shearers and the drover
while high above the stormy clouds were darkly rolling over.
The fierce storm burst on them as they headed down the track
and all the three young riders then had thoughts of turning back.
But they were wet and weary and the sun was setting low
so on they pushed,each to the others their fear they could not show.
Above the raging storms fierce noise Adam Bruce was heard to say,
I am very much afraid of all the lightning here today.
Chaplain also voiced his fear of fierce storms and lightning
and so the tempest up above was even made more frightening.
We mustn’t stop, we must push on, he made the observation,
so on they rode into the storm to reach their destination.
At last the station gates were reached with men and horses spent
but still the torrent from above did never once relent.
Peter Bruce undid the latch and opened up the gates
and held them open wide enough to let in both his mates.
Side by side they rode on through and he came in behind
but as he closed the latch he heard a sound that chilled his mind.
A thunderous crash and blinding light filled all the sky around
and as he looked he saw his brother lying on the ground.
The lightning had passed through the the man and so into the horse
and shook the country all around so awesome was its force.
Trapped beneath his faithful horse Adam Bruce was dead,
struck by the lightning which had hit him squarely on the head.
No sound was heard by man man nor beast as they fell to the ground
while thunder and more violent flashes filled the air around.
His two companions raised him up and took him from that place
and placed his tattered bushmans hat so gently on his face.
Peter left him in a grave beside the Station Track
and marked the spot so he could find it when he could get back.
As bushmen do they mourned their mate and also as a brother
so promised him a real grave and notified his mother.
When Peter came back to the spot where his brother lay
he took him into Charleville where at last he then could stay.
A marker with his name upon was placed above his head
to mark this spot and tell the world that Adam Bruce was dead.
But time and storms and raging floods reached Adam once again
and washed away the simple cross that bore his engraved name.
Now no headstone marks his grave, no family come to mourn,
no sign upon the graveyard sand that he was even born.
Where once there was a graveyard site is now a barren ground,
and Adams final resting spot will never now be found.
In memory of Adam Bruce. 1857-1884.
by Ray Jackson. 2020.
Milli Station Homestead 1909
Moya Sharp
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