Published: 24 Jul 2025

The early morning air is thick with humidity but at least the persistent rain had eased as Tate approaches the Cairns telegraph and post office. It is a new building situated at the bottom end of Spence Street, erected at the site of the arrival of the telegraph line from Brisbane twelve hundred miles to the south of the colony. The building is of local stone with ornate arches in terracotta brickwork over the doors and windows.

To the rear of the telegraph office are a number of cumbersome red velocipedes with a wicker basket attached to their handlebars.

‘I won’t be riding those,’ Tate thinks as he approaches the heavy double doors of the Telegraph office.

After a short period of contemplation Tate enters through a side door as he believed the front entrance is for business of which he lacks.

Inside is a hive of industry unknown to most except for the occasional greeting arriving at ones door, delivering a wired report of a wedding or death of a relative, some even forewent the high expense and sent birthday greeting. It was also suggested those who are well heeled and socially established had messages sent simply to display their status, being pleased in knowing their neighbours were privy to the telegram’s arrival.

If inclined you could send a wire all the way to London. Firstly it would need to be sent to Brisbane, to Adelaide in the colony of South Australia then via the two thousand miles Overland Telegraph Line to Darwin. Once in the central north, and oddly almost on the same latitude as Cairns, your message would be sent by underwater cable to Singapore then after numerous repeater stations and about twenty-four hours later it would arrive in London costing about the same as an average size house.

A somewhat bemused situation if you wished to invite someone for lunch.

The only conversation heard in the cavernous room is in relation to one’s work, with voice kept low not to disturb the ambience, or more in truth the strict regulations set down by the department. The only sound is from a strange instrument that an officer taps with his finger, then once done he quickly translates into writing the dots and dashes he received in response.

There is one who stands apart from the industry; his eyes are everywhere, his expression stern in his stiff white starched collar and drab dark suit, his shoes polished to mirror standard.

He spies Tate’s approach and quickly challenges the lad’s entry into Her Majesties official Telegraph and Post Office using the staff entrance instead of making his arrival noted at the service counter.

“May I assist you young lad?” the stern man in the dark suit questions.

Tate’s eyes are everywhere.

Never before had he seen so much gravity in one place and is almost struck dumb by the atmosphere within the room.

Eventually Tate responds.

“I’ve come about the job.”

“What job would that be?”

“My brother said you advertised from a delivery boy.”

All eyes turn towards Tate, except for those of the telegraph operator as he cautiously taped at his contraption.

-.-./.-/../.-./-./… -.-./.-/.-../.-../../-./–.

The message may have been Chinese, or from some distant galaxy to the lad’s ears, even so it fills him with wonder towards the advancing modernity and ingenuity of his fellow countrymen.

The supervisor frowns.

“Can you read and write?” he demands.

“I can sir and I have my own horse but I don’t wish to ride one of those machines I spied in the shed.”

“The velocipedes are for delivering mail. If you are acceptable for such important employment you would be delivering telegraph messages and during other times whatever is directed about the office.”

Tate feels relief and settles a little.

“What is your name lad?”

“Tate Edwards sir.”

“Do I know your brother Wilson who works for Jackson the carter?”

“Yes Wilson is an older brother and I have many others.”

The official gives a rare smile.

“I knew your father and a finer gentleman you could not encounter and if you are as half industrious as he had been you would be an asset to any establishment.”

The man’s tone sounds doubtful towards Tate’s suitability as so far he hadn’t displayed enthusiasm, nor had he dressed for an occasion of application, even after being advised to do so by Elsie.

“About the job sir?”

Tate would have enquired about salary but doing so in such an atmosphere would not seem proper.

“There are two other applicants, come back tomorrow morning before ten for my decision.”

Tate remains stationery as the dots and dashes click away. He remains bewildered.

“Was there something else lad?”

“No sir.”

“Then until tomorrow.”

Tate is hardly through the door before Elsie is challenging him on the offered position.

“Well?” Elsie says.

“The job?”

“What else would I be asking, did you get it?”

“Dunno’,”

Elsie becomes irritated with her brother’s usual indifference, “what do you mean you don’t know; surely there would have a definite yes or no?”

“He said come back tomorrow.”

“By what your brother said the job was yours for the asking.”

“Wilson is inclined to exaggerate.”

Elsie has doubts about her brother, “I hope you turn up tomorrow, not like the last time.”

“I will, besides that wasn’t my fault.”

“You slept in and you were late.”

“That is because Wilson was supposed to wake me.”

Elsie shows disappointment, “you know what our dear father would say towards such an answer.”

“He would say many things.”

“In most Tate, he would say don’t blame others for you own failings.”

“He would also say always honour your promises and that Wilson did not.”

Elsie is about to continue but knows any argument with Tate always ended with the lad having the final word.

Morning arrives as morning must and with lackadaisical interest Tate approaches the telegraph office.

Inside he finds the same stilted industry he encountered during his previous visit.

The supervisor appears to be ignoring him while conversing with one of his postmen. Occasionally he lifts his eyes towards Tate without displaying acknowledgement.

Eventually the supervisor approaches.

“Master Edwards I would think you have come about the position of delivery boy?”

“I have sir.”

A thought is invoked by Tate; ‘And I’ve put on my Sunday best for the occasion.’

Tate’s Sunday best is obviously not good enough.

“I’m sorry lad but I have given the position to another, although I should say you came a close second, so don’t give up trying and be sure to give my regards to Elsie.”

The supervisor gives a forced smile, a half nod and leaves for his office.

He enters and closes the door on the world.

‘That’s that then,’ Tate thinks without feeling any level of disappointment as he was never interested working in such a controlled environment, even if most of his time would be out of doors.

‘Bugger!’ he thinks as he departs through the heavy doors.

‘What will Elsie say as I don’t think his regards will be satisfying?’

‘I know what she will say.’

‘She will say I didn’t try hard enough or show enthusiasm.’

‘Oh well, she has said worse.’

Tate’s consideration on Elsie’s reaction was correct but it is Wilson who showed understanding, instead of calling him useless he greeted his brother with sincerity.

“I suppose you know who got the job?” Wilson asks.

“No he didn’t say and I wasn’t about to ask.”

“It was Ronald Hinds.”

“How do you know that?”

“I saw him this morning while we were delivering a load of timber to his old man’s place in Freshwater when he told me about the job and he happens to be the telegraph manager’s nephew.”

“He has barn-door ears and can’t ride,” Tate protests.

“I’d say his riding skills are enough to satisfy his uncle.”

Elsie had been quietly listening to the boys then lowers her assessment of Tate towards sympathy but remains resolute towards his necessity to find employment.

“Freddie will be home this evening possibly he can find you a position with the road gang,” Elsie hopefully suggests.

“I’ll see what’s offering,” Tate says.

‘But I won’t,’ he thinks.

“Is that a promise or simply to silence me?”

“I believe the pay is poor,” Tate protests but doesn’t make the promise.

“Even a little would help.”

Elsie takes a deep frustrated breath and forces it out. She is tired and feels the battle of the brothers isn’t worth her bother. It was the same with Wilson until she approached Les Jackson to take him on as jockey for his carting business, even Freddie had been difficult. The two remaining girls Sally and Winnie were fine as they worked from home taking in washing and sewing and Winnie is stepping out with a young man who works for the surveyors department, while Michael found employment with the beche-de-mer boats being away at sea for weeks at a time. Michael always returned with coin in pocket but most of it went to the coffers of the many dockside inns and hotels.

Elsie had once made promise to marry. Percy Smith was a hotel proprietor from Port Douglas, a small coastal settlement a short distance north of Cairns. The date for the marriage had been set and the wedding banns posted, alas shortly before the happy event, tragedy struck when their father passed away, soon after their mother followed, leaving Elsie as the eldest to run the family, being impossible if married and living in Port Douglas. Unfortunately the wedding had to be postponed until a later time but the hotelier couldn’t wait and quickly married a local girl.

From that day Elsie put aside aspirations of having her own family for the sake of her siblings.

Noticing his sister’s gravity Wilson attempts to bring humour to the impasse of Tate’s lack of employment, “you could always accept that captain’s offer of cabin boy,” he laughs.

A flashing of eyes relates displeasure, “I don’t think so” Tate snaps.

‘I wish I never confided in Wilson about that,’ he thinks.

“Or I could pay you for services.”

“What does that mean?” Elsie demands, her eyes flashing from Wilson to Tate and back to Wilson believing the boys had some clandestine adventure or worse, illegal. She could well do without the establishment knocking on the door at all hours with news one or the other had been arrested, while the neighbours hid behind curtains and whispers. It was embarrassing enough to have Michael occasionally brought home drunk with Sergeant Hugh Townsend asking if he belonged to her, suggesting if she couldn’t keep him on a short leash, maybe a few nights in the lockup may mend his ways.

“Nothing, Wilson is being an idiot.”

Wilson is grinning.

“I could do with some help with the needlework,” Winnie had been listening from the adjoining room and supports Wilson with levity. She places aside a shirt with a torn collar and approaches, “If we are having beef stew for tonight’s meal I better start with the preparation.

The suggestion brings Elsie from her continuing frustration with her brother and for now the question of Tate’s employment is shelved.

The brothers leave the house together but Tate remains smarting towards Wilson’s earlier suggestion that he should pay Tate for services. “You shouldn’t have said that,” he quietly protests.

“And why not?”

“Just shouldn’t have, that’s all.”

“It was harmless enough, besides no one except you would understand what I meant.”

“Elsie isn’t dumb she thinks a lot and will dwell on it. Eventually what you said will return to bite you on the arse.”

“Us both you mean.”

“Maybe, besides it’s about time we grew away from that kinda’ stuff.”

“Anyway what are you going to do about work?”

“Dunno’, I may go bush for a while, at least that will lighten the stress on the meal table.”

“If you do go wandering about in the forest then be careful.”

“Why so?”

“There is talk Ben Morgan is hold up somewhere near the headwater of the falls and he had a real mean streak.”

“Who in Ben Morgan?” Tate asks.

“Freddy said he worked with him on the road and Morgan murdered the paymaster and stole the payroll. He is said to be a big bugger with more attitude than a mad dog.”

“What would he want with me, I have nothing but the clothes I’m standing in and if he is as big as you suggest, I don’t think my clothes would of much use to him.”

Wilson continues; “it is also suggested he simply thrashes people for sport.”

“Maybe so; come on we better feed the chickens before you’re off to work,” Tate collects the scrap bucket and walks with Wilson to the chicken coop.

“What’s it like up there?” Wilson asks as Tate empties the slops over the wicker fence into a low trough while avoiding the splash back across his trouser legs.

Immediately the chickens become animated and mill about before being hunted away from the tastiest morsels by the rooster.

“Do you mean in the mountains?”

“Yea.”

“It isn’t all mountains you know. There are a number of villages and land under cultivation on the tableland but if you need to take a cart or wagon, even a horse you need to approach from up Post Douglas way where it is less steep, that is why Freddie is working on a quicker approach following the Barron River Gorge.”

“That I know but the mountains what are they like?”

“Beautiful, rugged and wild, in some places you can hardly make progress as the trees are so close to each other, many are up to two hundred feet high where the sunlight never reaches the ground.”

“I’ve heard there are savage beasts and monsters?”

Tate laughs.

“That is what is said.”

“The only monsters you’ll find are in people’s heads,” Tate suggests.

“What about the blacks. I hear they still eat people.”

“True they did but that was further north about the Palmer gold fields and along the Endeavour River, the lot in the mountains are somewhat shy although if you upset their rituals they will soon retaliate.”

Wilson gives a shudder, “you can keep your flaming mountains,” he says as Les Jackson arrives with his cart for an afternoon delivery.

Spying Tate with Wilson, Les climbs down from the cart being mindful of his gammy leg, caused by an altercation with a rouge bull during his younger days working on a cattle station near Rockhampton.

He gives the leg a stretch and approaches the brothers.

“You about ready lad, we have a heavy workload this afternoon.”

“Almost Les, it looks like rain,”

“I think not lad;” hopeful words as there are perishables to be delivered,

“I’ll get my coat anyway,” Wilson turns to his brother, “when will you be leaving?”

“Tomorrow morning.”

“Have you told Elsie?”

“Not yet.”

“All I will say is for you to be careful.”

“Careful is my middle name brother.”

“Even so.”

Wilson goes to collect his coat.

“I hear you missed out on the telegraph job,” Les Jackson recalls. He removes his hat and runs his arthritic fingers through the remaining strands of greying hair

“True Les but I wasn’t all that interested.”

“I’d hang about if I were you, from what I hear the Hinds kid won’t be doing very much work.”

“Why so Les?’

“He fell of his flaming horse and broke a leg.”

Tate is grinning.

‘I said he couldn’t ride.’

“You should hot-foot it down and see if you can take his place.”

“I don’t think so Les, I have other plans.”

Wilson returns, “righto Les let’s get this load delivered.”

It may have been Tate’s plan to, as he expressed to Wilson, go bush but he was having difficulty conveying his intentions to his sister. True he had travelled into the mountains on many occasions without ever letting anyone know where he was going. He was a younger then and full of sprit without family relying on him, even if for nothing more then continuity of the family unite and although Else would never admit it, she always worried when any of the boys were away, even Michael when at sea, especially during the cyclone season.

Freddie returns home late in the afternoon with more news on Ben Morgan the proclaimed murderer and now bushranger. It was said Morgan had a hideaway high in the mountains beyond the logging camp of Kuranda and had recently attacked and mortally injured a Welsh miner making his way to the tin ore fields at Herberton. The miner later succumbed to his injuries, living long enough to relate a description of his attacker, believed to fit that of Morgan. Even so by the man’s sketchy portrayal it could be any of a dozen or more men living rough in the vast tropical forest but it suited most to place the blame on Morgan, as he was solitary and considered to be recalcitrant.

There were many anomalies regarding the killing of the paymaster and theft of the payroll for the road gang. It appeared the foreman had come across the incident at the very moment Morgan discharged his firearm hitting the paymaster William Gardner squarely mid chest causing instant death. Although remaining at some distance the foreman Jack Worthy shouted in protest but Morgan grabbed the bag containing the payroll and bolted into the bush. As the foreman was considered trustworthy in his account it was accepted, besides why would Morgan abscond in haste if he was innocent. Another anomaly being Gardner shouldn’t have been delivering the payroll without a guard and on that day his second was supposed to have been Jack Worthy the foreman, so why was Worthy absent when Gardner set out and why close by when the incident occurred.

As the blame was squarely on Morgan those questions were never asked.

Tate’s nervous disposition about telling Elsie his intentions was soon derailed as Freddie had met up with Wilson while doing deliveries in Smithfield learning about their brother’s failure to secure the position at the telegraph office and his intention to travel.

In general conversation Freddie lets it slip to Elsie.

“That’s the first of heard of it,” Elsie raises an eyebrow then frowns.

Tate’s head shrinks into his shoulders, as his eyes lower away from his sister’s glare.

“Opps, sorry was it supposed to be a secret?” Freddie apologises.

“It isn’t a secret Freddie, only I hadn’t got around to saying anything.”

“When would you have told me, on your way out of the door, or like last time a scribbled note on torn scrap of newsprint left on the kitchen table?”

“Tonight after dinner.”

“Why?” Elsie demands.

“No reason but you must admit my not being here will take pressure of the meal table.”

“Don’t talk daft Tate, we always manage and I’m sure you will eventually find work, besides I would rather you wait a while as we will be having a visitor in a few days.”

“Who would that be?”

“Thelma is coming up on the coach from Redcliffe to stay for a while.”

Tate gives a disapproving huffing sound, as he had never warmed to their second after Elsie, “all the more reason for me to be going,” he pauses then continues, “and why is Thelma visiting?”

“She has broken up with Lenny and needs somewhere to live until she can arrange something.”

“What happened?”

“Thelma didn’t say a lot in her letter, only Lenny has a fancy woman in Toowoomba and he’s buggered off to be with her.”

“Where is Toowoomba?”

“I’m not sure; I think it is somewhere west of Brisbane,” Elsie suggests.

“I suppose the kids will be coming?”

“As far as I know they will, Thelma said Lenny doesn’t want anything to do with them.”

“Therefore I should ask the obvious question.”

“What would that be?”

“Where will they all sleep?”

“With Freddie away most of the time working on the road, I could move his bed into Winnie and Sally’s room for Thelma and bunk the boys down in the shed.”

Tate laughs; “the shed you say.”

“Yes why?”

“You mean the lean-to that is already full of junk.”

Elsie appears positive.

She has to be positive being the head of the family.

“I am sure we can move things about to fit in two small beds.”

“I saw a great big python in there sometime back. I reckon it lives on the rats that scurry about the junk”

Tate allows the thought to register with Elsie.

“Also it is full of spiders,” he attaches to the dread.

Elsie remains unconcerned.

Tate continues; “not to mention a great big hole in the wall.”

“Freddie is handy with a hammer, seeing he is home for a couple of days he can fix the hole.”

“Can I?” Freddie questions as till now he had been standing well away from their sister’s displeasure.

Elsie’s glare says yes.

“As I have tomorrow free, I suppose I could have a go,” Freddie offers.

“There is your answer Tate, we’ll manage, besides you will not be here therefore it isn’t your problem.”

“So true,” Tate concludes on the matter of their sister and her kids.

Elsie reverts back to the subject of Tate’s travelling and what he would do for work.

“Like you said Elsie while referring to fitting everyone in, I’ll manage.”

Freddie interjects, “I could put in a word for you with the road gang they are always looking for navvies.”

“That is because they keep falling off the flaming mountain, also half the time you are stood down without pay because of the weather.”

“There had only been four killed since starting five months ago and mostly from their own stupidity. Besides two were Chinks and the other two so drunk they couldn’t put a foot firmly before the other.”

“No I’ve made up my mind; I will leave in the morning.”

Gary’s stories are about life for gay men in Australia’s past and present. Your emails to him are the only payment he receives. Email Gary to let him know you are reading: Conder 333 at Hotmail dot Com

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