Not forgotten

I have previously written of my 3GGF William "George" Beck, who sailed the seas from England to Tasmania to California, all for family. As a young man, he accompanied his parents (Becks) and aunts and uncles (Knights and Webbs) to Van Dieman's Land; as a young father, he packed up his family to try their fortune in California in the Gold Rush.

But the family with three children that boarded the Barque Spartan in 1850 headed to California was not complete. Yes, they had already buried three children (including twin boys that did not survive), but George's 12 year old daughter Sarah from his first marriage--who had lost her mother while George was at sea--is not on the passenger manifest. 

And it does not appear to be an oversight by the purser: there is no record of Sarah in any records once they arrive. In the years after their arrival, the family expands by two more daughters. George makes a good living selling real estate and building houses for miners returning from the mother lode with pockets full of placer gold. He lives a prosperous life, dying at the age of 69, with a sizeable portfolio of real estate and a passel of grandchildren. He outlived his second wife by 25 years.

So whatever happened to Sarah? When I asked my mother, she said she had always heard that she died along with her mother, or perhaps she came to California at a later date. Great Aunt Marjorie assumed she had died, since it was inconceivable to her that a parent would abandon a child.

However, digging through the Tasmanian archives (a researcher's dream: clearly scanned, indexed, and online), Launceston reveals itself as a very small town: in the 1843 census, there is an unidentified young girl of Sarah's age living at Carr Villa, her great uncle John Knight's estate. In 1851, the census names her as living with her grandmother Beck. But we hit pay dirt in the 1856 Assessment Book for Launceston, where she is not only living with her grandmother, but her aunt and uncle Webb have also moved in. Also in the list of residents is Thomas Hughes, her new husband. She is 18 and pregnant with the first of 12 children. 

When George died in California in 1882, his will appointed his youngest daughter Lizzie as administratix. His will splits the estate evenly between his four surviving children, identified by name. But the 1885 probate settlement tells another story: Lizzie and her siblings make sure that their half-sister Sarah Hughes finally gets her due: she receives 1/5 of the estate, with the remainder going to her unmarried half-sister Grace. 

The father and his four children circa 1859:
Mary, Tom, Lizzie (Elizabeth), William George, and Grace

Australian royalty

If you haven't already, you'll want to read the story of the Launceston Library.  

Picking up where I left off: I had three siblings with land grants in Launceston, Tasmania (then called Van Dieman's Land). All of them were free persons--no convicts. My great aunt Marjorie had been adamant that there were no convicts to sully our name or reputation. But I couldn't help but wonder why an entire family that had been in the same village for generations would uproot to an unknown and distant land--reachable only by a two to five-month sea voyage that was in itself an ordeal.

I learned that the English government was offering a bounty to young men with a trade, which William "George" Beck was. He was  a carpenter, and I can remember seeing the chest he made in my great aunt's house. But that didn't explain why his parents and four of his aunts and uncles made the same trip. 

Having established that we had three siblings and their spouses thanks to my distant cousin just across the Canadian border, I learned from this same gentlemen that their father, Samuel Knight, had been the subject of a trial at the old Bailey on April 25, 1814. 

The transcript from the Old Bailey trial

Samuel, a cloth salesman, had moved his family to London in hopes to improve their economic situation, but that apparently had not worked out, and on an April evening, he and his brother and a couple of cronies took a crow bar to a warehouse door and stole  some furs. Both Samuel and his brother James were sentenced to death. Both of them had their sentences commuted to transportation.

On August 7, 1815, James and Samuel were transported to Port Jackson, Sydney in Australia aboard the Baring, along with 300 other convicts. In 1830, Samuel completed his sentence, and his son John, who had moved to Launceston, applied for a land grant for his father and brothers-in-law. In 1822, two things happened: James died, and Samuel earned a ticket of leave. Samuel then requested a transfer to Van Dieman's Land. By 1829, he had a conditional pardon, though his commuted sentence meant that he could never return to England. 

So it appears that Samuel, a convict, is most certainly the reason that the three siblings came to Launceston: the timing permitted petitions for Samuel's transfer and land grants for the siblings, all taken care of by his son John. 

In an interesting footnote, George Beck's first Daughter, Sarah, was left behind with his parents and aunties when he left for California. She ended up marrying an Irish man who had also received a death sentence--for stealing a gentleman's handkerchief--commuted to transportation: during his sea journey to Launceston, the transportation system was dismantled, and he found himself a free man upon arrival (except for the option of returning to Dublin). Thomas Hughes was a watchmaker, and provided well for his wife and 12 children. There are still many Hughes in Tasmania who can trace their roots to this couple.

Secret sign

Among the treasures handed down to me is a small wicker box containing several medals and ribbons: some are from my father's military service, a whole bunch are tarnished medals from my grandfather Albert Walsh's short career as a one-mile walker, but the most elaborate are those from my grandfather's involvement with masonic organizations. Deeper research indicates that his brother Vincent was also a member of the order. Unfortunately, the fancy fez headgear did not survive. 

In his obituary we learn he was a member of "Henry Clay Lodge No. 95 F & AM, California Bodies Scottish Rite Islam Temple, Royal Order of Jesters," all part of the Masonic landscape. Sure enough, there are a number of Shriner pins (fez and sword), as well as some from the Royal Order of Jesters, naming Albert a "Light Comedian," and other bits adorned with Billiken, their chubby mascot ("The God of Things as They Ought To Be"). 

In her photo album, his mother Julia pastes pictures of Albert with his Shriner group; it seems ironic that the current Masonic Temple in San Francisco, across the street from Grace Cathedral, was completed only a year before he died.

My father knew his dad was a Mason ("wide mouth?" we would joke with innocent hilarity), but he never seemed to be a joiner; it was only in his 50s that he decided to join a church and the historical society. 

So there was some joy in hearing that in his 70s, he was invited to join The Ancient and Honorable Order of E Clampus Vitus, a fraternal organization dedicated to preserving western heritage (at the time, he was president of the Shasta Historical Society), known for placing historical markers throughout the west. But my father was never one to take things too seriously (his father was a light comedian, after all): the name of the group  is improper Latin that translates loosely as, "I believe it because it is absurd." In addition to placing plaques ("doin's"), they did fundraising for "widders and orphans," and held beer-fueled camps called colloquia. But the best part was that they had rituals: wear a black hat and a red shirt, give the "secret sign" to fellow Clampers if you should see them about town. He delighted in teaching the gesture to our toddler son; I can't tell you what it is, because it's a secret. 

Albert - back row, first on left

Rock collection

We tend to think of stone as a material for the ages--buildings and statues from ancient civilizations that we see in museums and around the globe are still with us, sometimes in perfect condition, sometimes showing their age. But weather, wars, and the choice of stone itself have a direct bearing on longevity.

Coming from a family of genealogists means that cemeteries are nothing new to me. There's always at least one big shady tree that someone had the foresight to plant many decades ago, an area with newer graves--some with wooden markers pending the final stone--and the somewhat overgrown areas with the older, worn stones. But as an adult, I learned that this does not hold true everywhere.

When I first visited my father-in-law's home town in southern Germany back in the 1980s, I noticed a sign that pointed to the cemetery. Since it was a sunny day, we strolled over. I understand now why the place looked so well-tended, and am kicking myself for not taking a photograph of DH's grandfather's headstone. For this is a typical Catholic cemetery, where plots are rented for a period (usually 80 years); any remaining bones are exhumed and placed in a common ossuary. Which means that the stone I saw that fine day is no longer there. 

So what happens to the stones? It's not uncommon to see the vestiges of earlier houses in the stones of newer ones in Europe; I imagine that some headstones are repurposed as paving stones (face down), and others may be broken up for stone walls between fields and such. But every family has its historian, and some families keep the stones. And this was the case with cousin Pia.

During one of our visits to Betra last winter, we met up with another cousin, who walked the rows with us, and helped us photograph all the graves with the family name, telling us stories about the ones she knew personally. And then she took us to cousin Pia's house. Pia herself was under the weather, but pointed us to a shed in the back corner of her garden. There, leaned up against the shed were headstones from the 1960s that has been removed from the cemetery when their time expired.

Cousins in Pia's backyard