You may not know, but in the Coolgardie Cemetery lies the son of one of the ‘Supposed’ members of Ben Hall’s bushranger gang. His name is William HASSELL – buried 24 Jan 1898, aged 34 years, died at Coolgardie Hospital, Cause: Enteric Fever, Father: William Thomas ‘Black Bob’ HASSELL, Mother: Julia LALOR, Born: Ballarat East, Victoria, Reg: 28/1898 Coolgardie, R/C A.95, Buried Coolgardie Cemetery.
Grave of William Hassell – Coolgardie Cemetery – Image Find a Grave
Port Fairy Gazette 20 December 1910, page
WHY ‘BLACK BOB’ LEFT BEN HALL’S GANG
By “Wonga Wonga.”
“And are yer are really Joe Simpson?” “I am, Ah, Bob, old boy, many a time I helped you drive the cattle over the creek down there. Don’t you remember old Beauty, how she used to dodge us to get to the cultivation paddock?” “Oh, Lor, you’ve not forgotten that? I say, is it true yer now a Minister of the Crown?” “Quite true. I’m fairly well-to-do now, too, so I sent my wife and the family to Tasmania for a couple of months. I was to go to my wife’s people for Christmas, but I got a great longing to see the old place. I haven’t been here since I was married, and here I am going to have my Christmas dinner at Kimpton’s. Isn’t the old lady a wonder? Eighty-six, and running the hotel yet.”
And you, too, Bob — why, you must be over 80, and you’re straighter in the back than I am, and I’m not yet fifty.” He laughed his low, chuckling laugh — how well I remembered it.
Bob, otherwise known as ‘Black Bob’, had been the hero of my boyhood, in virtue of his having joined Ben Hall’s “gang.” That, I had often heard my father say, had caused no surprise in the neighbourhood. What surprised everybody was when he voluntarily left the “gang” and disappeared. He was caught eight years afterwards on the Victorian goldfields and sentenced to 14 years’ hard labour, but, on account of good behaviour, was let out long before his time. After that, he worked for my father for some years. A queer fellow was Black Bob, so called on account of his fine crop of curly black hair, and his dark eyes, which even now had lost little of the old fire.
My mother always maintained that Black Bob was as honest as the sun, notwithstanding his bushranging episode and reckless living. “Wasn’t it on Christmas Day that you ‘stuck-up’ Kimpton’s?” I asked him. “Aye! Forty-eight years ago, today. I left the gang that night.” “Bob, old fellow. I’d give a good deal to know why you left the gang; it was always a mystery?”
We were leaning on the fence of the old bush burial ground. My companion gave me a quick, queer look, then bent his grey head on the top rail, and a shudder ran through his body. “Never mind, old boy,” I said, “We’ll talk of something else.” “No, I’ll tell yer, Joe, for although yer are a minister of the Crown yer just ‘Joe’ to me.” “I should think so.” “Well, you’ve heard about the ‘stickin up’ of Kimptons that Christmas day often enough.
“I know it all by heart.” “No, yer don’t, nor nobody else but me!”
After a silence in which he seemed to be gathering up courage, he went on: “You’ve heard of the servant girl at Kimpton’s? “Yes, often — Poor Kitty, she was as pretty and tidy a girl as you’d wish to see. You knowed she had a child?” “Yes, the poor youngster was shot that evening by Dunn.” He shook his head sadly. “You’ve heard, too, of long Jim Ryan, as was always prowling about Kimpton’s after the girl, and sneaking round the country trying to git a fortune out of the Government fer givin’ information on us?” I nodded. ‘I swore I’d have him, and I gave Ben Hall no peace till he came. We rode over that there hill at daybreak and had breakfast in that there clump of trees to yer left. Kimpton ain’t a bad sort, ‘ says Ben Hall, ‘so we’ll let her eat her Christmas goose in peace, and so we did.
The day was a scorcher, and we lay low till 5 o’clock; then we got to business. As we came across that paddock with the green patch, I saw long Jim Ryan tearin’ down the road on his brown mare. He had got wind of us and was goin’ to give the alarm at Kimpton’s. He had moleskin trousers on, and a lightish shirt. A puff of wind blew his hat off, and he galloped on bareheaded. I took stock of his appearance, for he was a marked man. It must have been nigh on seven o’clock. Ben Hall was doing business in the bar, and Dunne had a whole crowd of ’em bailed up on the road. I was about 400 yards off, watchin’ for my man. P’raps the cussed hate I had in my heart half-blinded me, I don’t know, but, after a while, I saw him, as I thought, crawling round the corner of the house on his hands and knees, for I can tell, yer men didn’t stand on their dignity when Ben Hall was about.
Yes, there was my man, bareheaded, and in a light shirt. “‘Ah! You sneak; I’ve got yer now!’ I shouted and fired; he rolled over. At that blessed moment, there was a scrummage between Dunne and two policemen what rode up. Shots was fired. That was how Dunne got the credit fer my shot. “When the smoke cleared, I heard a woman scream, and Kitty rushed across the yard to the corner of the house and picked something up. She was screaming —
‘My baby! My baby! The devils have killed my baby!
“It wasn’t long Jim Ryan in the light shirt that I knocked over, but the child in a white coat that Mrs Kimpton had given him for Christmas.” The old man bent his head and rested it on the top rail again, and another shudder passed through his frame. I laid my hand affectionately on his shoulder and said, “Poor old Bob.” He raised his head and looked at me. Never will I forget the expression of his eyes — so beautiful in their pathos, and yet so wild in their horror.
“Joe,” he said, in a hoarse whisper, “the child I shot ” He shuddered. ‘ It was my own child!
Moya Sharp
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