Murty Broderick – He threw a seven!

He Threw a Seven

by Smiler Hayles

He came to this field amongst the first army of gold-seekers who swept inland from the sea coast, intent upon burgling the treasure chests of nature. He was only one of the rough but gallant band of pioneers who, leaving home and loved ones far behind them, faced the dangers and privations of this rock-ribbed, waterless region. His name was Murtagh Broderick, and the snows of winter had whitened the beard and bared the head of the old miner.
For many a long year he had ranged over the goldfields of Australasia, working as men of his breeding do work; joyous in his hours of good fortune, patient and persevering when he struck a streak of hard luck.

Only a private in the restless, energetic, ever-moving army of prospectors who are daily and yearly facing dangers that city men never dream of. I saw him only a few days back out at Fly Flat, delving amidst the network of abandoned claims for the narrow seams of unworked ground. Many a big nugget had been unearthed there on the ground that sloped down from Bayley’s, and as the old man worked away hardily, with his strong arms looking like whipcord and his bronzed neck bare to the kisses of wind and sun, his thoughts ran away to the humble home in sunny New South Wales, where the grey haired wife sat patiently by the cottage fireside in the evening, and as she darned the old frock thought of and prayed for the man who in his lusty manhood had taken her now withered hand in his for life’s long journey.
On Tuesday last he was working away as steadily as ever, down six or seven feet in a bit of treacherous ground in Fly Flat, he was under mining on a bit of a lead that looked like ending on pay dirt when, without a moment’s warning, down came the treacherous dirt, caving him in, choking up the strong chest, crushing the rugged life, sending the hatter’s soul out over the boundary into the unpegged country that persons call eternity.
I saw him once again, a trooper stood beside the lifeless body that lay stiff and cold in an iron hut in Coolgardie. He was dressed in his mining clothes, rough hewn and rugged, but on his honest face rested a sort of smile. Broderick had skipped his claim, drawn up his pegs, and left. He had followed his luck to the end, Murtagh had thrown a seven; and when we follow suit, hand in our checks and quit, may we be found like him, square at our post. Wednesday they planted him, out in the open, where the clear stars will shine, close to Coolgardie camp; so that the miner’s soul hanging around at times, when there’s no business on where he’s prospecting, may take a midnight stroll and hear the great hum of life rising, and rolling, and swelling-from the heart of the camp in Coolgardie.

A Coolgardie Camp 1894

Murty Broderick is buried in the Coolgardie Pioneer Cemetery in an unmarked grave.