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

George's little diary

I wrote earlier about my 3GGF William "George" Beck, who emigrated to Tasmania as a ship's carpenter. His family had gravitated there when he was a young man of 18, his life spread out before him. Life was hardscrabble, as evidenced by advertisements in the local paper (owned by his uncle) that showed people serving many roles: the barkeep was also a baker, and his wife and sister sold fancy goods brought fresh from London--no doubt by young George. 

When he was 24, George married a woman named Elizabeth Ford, and within a year, they had a daughter, named Sarah. George, trying to provide for his little family, set off on yet another voyage back to England. Two things stand out: his wife died while he was at sea returning to Tasmania--just after he had crossed the equator on his easterly route, and we know this because there are excerpts copied from his "little diary" by his granddaughter sometime in the 1940s. 

The notes are terse (the diary was small?) "Feby 5th 1840 Arrived at Van Dieman's Land" (after 5 months at sea) and "May 10th gave L1 S10 for a plaid dress"--presumably for his toddler daughter Sarah, though she is not mentioned by name. There is also no entry copied for his second marriage, to another Elizabeth (Gardiner) in 1842. They had six children in quick succession--and lost three of them. After the death of his father and the discovery of gold in California, George smelled gold: he built a small house, took it apart and put it in the hold of the Barque Spartan, then bundled his wife and children up for the 112-day voyage to California: "Left Launceston for California, arrive Sept 2, stopping 10 days at Tahiti." His daughter Sarah is not with them, apparently having been taken in by her grandmother. Six weeks after their arrival, the Beck family buries their young baby boy, George, in California, their new home. 

The diary's copyist notes that the original was passed down to her cousin, but that cousin died in 1973. I have not been successful in finding the diary, which might have answered some questions, such as why he left his first child behind--she was not mentioned in his will, but when his children probated the will, they made sure to send Sarah her share of the estate. I can only wonder what other tales the diary might reveal.

I can only hope that the little diary is safe and sound in the hands of a distant cousin somewhere, and that it is not lost to time. 

The Barque Spartan

Edward and the mystery pitcher

My mother was the family historian, inheriting family charts, oodles of photographs, and of course, the odd family heirloom. The Civil War blanket that belonged to 3GGF George, the silver teaspoon from colonial cousin Polly, and the ornate Victorian Pitcher, won by Edward Walsh.

It is this latter item that was a mystery: the Walshes, family lore told us, came from Bandon in County Cork, Ireland; the immigrant ancestor was named Thomas, and his wife (according to a bank signature card) was Mary O'Brien. My father managed to track down Thomas and his large family in New York in 1850--a beautiful, clear hand had transcribed all the names legibly. A daughter born in Ireland, and other children are listed, but no Edward. The youngest son, David is the man my father remembered as his grandfather, a man who had left the Catholic Church and his family behind in New York. 

In the mid 1990s I had the opportunity to spend a month in Ireland. I took advantage of the Thursday evening hours to search microfilms of Irish Parish registers, and even ventured down to Bandon to walk the local cemeteries. I came home with some seemingly close matches, but nothing that popped out as "our people." For another twenty years, my father and I searched any index we could find to no avail; he built up a stack of microfilm request cards at the Family History Center. The path had grown cold.

My father and mother passed away, and I found a note that Edward's pitcher should go to our son, since he was studying fire science--somewhere along the line she had decided that Edward must have been a fireman, but it was a guess at best. And there was still no Edward in my tree, and I had no idea how to add him.

And then, in 2017, the family decided to do DNA testing; me, my brother, and son. At first, there were only strong matches on my mother's side, but after a couple of years, more, unidentified matches emerged--and by using Leeds sorting, I discovered three new surnames that could only be from my father's paternal side. I excitedly messaged each of them, and eagerly awaited their reply--could they help solve the Edward mystery?

To this day, none of the matches have responded, but I spent my waiting time building a tree for them. Based on the six relationships they posted, I traced their line up and down, and sideways. And then I found it: one set of matches connected to the Irish-born daughter, Mary! I turned my efforts to the next line, and there it was in a New York Times article: "Police Captain Edward Walsh died late last evening, after lying at the point of death for several weeks, at the home of his son-in-law." The son-in-law's name was in my DNA list, and the line seemed to fit, but I wanted to be sure.

I went through some of the more distant DNA  matches, and on a whim, contacted one in Ireland--in County Cork, but not in Bandon. Not only did she respond quickly, she was able to verify the two children born to Thomas and Mary--in Ballinhassig, County Cork. And one of them was named Edward. It all fit together, and the numbers in the DNA don't lie. Once I found a picture of him there was no doubt--he looks like his brother and nephews. 

And the pitcher? It was an award of valor for his role in defending his fellow officers during the Haughmont riots in New York, and it set him on a path to becoming a well-respected police chief.

The mystery pitcher

A chance meeting

It started as a routine business flight; after a long weekend of meetings, I grab an overpriced, TSA-approved snack in the airport and settle into my window seat, ready to enjoy a movie or book on the way home. I'm usually so spent after these weekends that I rarely do more than nod and smile at my seat mate(s), preferring the quietness of my noise-cancelling ear buds to chatting.

But this time was different: the middle seat was still empty, and just before the plane doors were to close, a long-haired man boarded the plane with a paper sack from the co-op where I shop at home. And he plopped down in the middle seat and flashed a friendly smile. As we took off, he reached in his paper bag, and pulled out hummus and chips, and offered some to me. I demurred, but had to ask him how he got the hummus past the TSA. He shrugged, but we struck up a conversation.

Turns out we were both in Chicago for work; I was fortunate to work inside during the bitterly cold January days, while he was supervising building houses. He was headed home to see his son, who was hoping to grow up to be a fireman. Funny thing, I said, so is my older boy, who is at college studying fire science. I tell him about the great fire explorer program close to where his son lives, we chat some more, and the conversation ebbs a bit. 

I pick up my tablet to open a book, and the splash screen is a picture my son sent me of the present I had given him for Christmas--a real fire helmet for his volunteer firefighting job. I had ordered in online to his specs, but had it delivered so had asked for a picture. So I turn to my seat mate, and say, see, here's the helmet I bought my son for Christmas. 

"No way!" he says. Confused, I ask what he means. He starts digging in his pockets and pulls out his passport. His surname is Hellstern, the same as my husband and son--whose name is emblazoned on the fire helmet. An extremely rare name, with its origins in the little town of Betra, where my father-in-law was born. And this is the first time I have met anyone outside of our immediate family who bears this name. 

I tell seatmate all this, and he is intrigued: he knows some of his family history back a generation or two, but we find no immediate connection. As the plane lands, we exchange emails, and I promise to share the Hellstern tree with him, and to find out how they are connected.

(As a funny aside, when I told this story to my husband on my return, his reaction was the same "no way!" that I had heard on the airplane.)

It takes a couple of years of research and exchanges, but the connection is made: he and my husband are eighth cousins; I send all of the family research on his branch to my former seatmate, and we add another name to the standing invitation list. A new cousin, who made a routine flight anything but routine.

A happy immigrant couple, three generations back from my seatmate