Published: 17 Jul 2025

The number thirteen is often suggested to be unlucky. Maybe that is so but for Tate Edwards being the thirteenth son of a father who was also the last of thirteen, Tate was far from unlucky.

Tate’s name came about when he was brought into the world and given the obligatory slap on the backside when he began to giggle rather than cry, therefore he was named Tate after his grandfather meaning cheerful. For Tate that was nineteen summers past and much had changed in the Edwards family during those fleeting years.

Tate had been an unexpected surprise as both Joseph and his wife Lora were by their own design and age considered past their reproductive years. At their advancing age with nine surviving children life would be a struggle for Tate’s parents even so their small dwelling was supported by a good kitchen garden in the township of Smithfield, a whisker’s distance inland from the port of Cairns and beside a mighty river. Also the boys were resourceful when it came to fishing, or hunting in the dark mysterious forest of the northern reaches of high Bellenden Ker mountain range.

Thirteen was also a good number for Tate as usually by the time the daily chores were allotted there was nothing remaining for him to do except dream, ride his brother’s skewbald mare Patchy and wander the northern tropical forests, avoiding any adversary the forest offered in the form of stinging nettle trees, scorpions, angry cassowaries birds, or the occasional twenty foot scrub python. One must not forget the large salt water crocodiles populating every coastal estuary or river and harmless if you left them alone; or that was the general consensus. In reality the crocs had millions of years to work out their tropical paradise, Englishmen had less than twenty, although like many of their countrymen they had aptness towards moving in, settling down no matter who was there, or what the climate may bring. Also crocodiles have the advantage of time as they were patient creatures needing to consume around fifty full meals a year, that would amount to one every weeks or so. A young lad like Tate chancing into their territory could be considered a fair enough meal even with his slightness of build, said to be from his father’s lack of juice by the time he got to the lad.

Tate a handsome young man of nineteen summers with long jet hair to his shirt collar, with eyes so blue one could be forgiven to think the deepest of oceans washed across his sight. Although slight of frame, Tate is resilient with strong ethics while being attentive and well equipped with forward planning. Give the lad a problem and as quick as you could say Jack Robinson’s big fat pig he would have an answer.

Mind you it may not always be the best answer but it would be at least workable.

As for his height, although within a whisker of his next brother, Wilson would often make comment but as quickly Tate would retort, I’m tall enough to reach almost anything I am in need of and if I can’t reach it I’ll use your shoulders, you are donkey enough to carry me.

Joseph Edwards started life as the thirteenth son of an Essex farmer back in thirty-four. By his fifteenth birthday anniversary, or there about he fell short of the law then transported to the antipodes and the new settlement of Moreton Bay at that time remained part of the New South Wales colony and settled to be rid of Sydney’s worst offenders. Luck prevailed as the youthful Joseph was soon favoured by a free settler with influence and within no time, although still considered a child himself at seventeen, had married the settler’s daughter and began his own horde of fine saplings.

The north is the way to go.

Those words were strong in the south of the colony where land was quickly becoming scarce for the taking, even after moving the natives from their homelands to areas useless for pasture or product where hunting was poor. Doing so often left the natives reliant on handouts being tragic towards their health and wellbeing as they soon fell prisoner to sugar and alcohol and without their ancestors to guide them they often pined away their existence. Some retaliated but spears, boomerangs and hope were no match for guns, also of all the native tribes on earth, the antipodean natives had what could be considered the worse organizational skills of them all, being impossible to muster more than a handful of brave warriors to retaliate at any time. Although well into the twentieth century and after the colonies federated many newcomers were cautious if travelling alone in the outback.

The tropics are beckoning for development and by all accounts it is a paradise on earth, even if the mercury seldom falls below thirty degrees centigrade but it was well documented that mad dogs and Englishmen were impervious to the midday sun.

A short time after arriving with his horde of saplings Joseph Edwards’s luck ran out when he succumb to what is known locally as scrub fever, often brought about by the bite of a tick causing allergies or worse. Within a week of Joseph’s passing his wife Lora followed him to the grave, her sudden demise was said to be from grief, or more in truth simply worn out through continuous childbirth and adverse living condition.

The parent’s demise left the family in the care of the eldest unmarried daughter Elsie and being in her thirties was fast becoming a wall flower.

With three from Joseph’s thirteen stillborn and a further two Thomas a twin to Michael and Thelma remaining in the south of the colony it still left seven in Elsie’s care and as Joseph had provided home and a small legacy life was moderate towards comfortable, even if privacy was conspicuously absent when it came to sleeping arrangements with two and in the early years three to a bed.

The Trinity Bay settlement had been established for ten years by the arrival of Joseph’s horde, firstly as a port for the newly found goldfields of Hodgkinson River then further docking space was provided for the growing beche-de-mer trade, commonly described as sea cucumber being a delicacy throughout Asia.

The port on Trinity Bay was also connected with the trade known as Blackbirding being rathe within the near by Pacific Islands. In truth Blackbirding was nothing more than slavery when the newly arrived sugar cane farmers to the coastal north had agents travel to the islands to coax their male citizens to become cutters of cane. If lack of interest was shown by the islanders, the agents simply grabbed the strongest and bundled them into the ships hull.

Were they paid?

Fed maybe and they could return home if any could raise the fare, or find an obliging captain. To do so was almost impossible as the men were paid in keep and clothing, coin was seldom if ever available for passage. There was a somewhat derogatory saying referring to the islanders, also including the indigenous people being, what do you call a black with money in his pocket?

The answer being a thief.

As for the natives the response should be after fifty thousand years without pockets or coinage, why have money when you live from the land and if your land is taken then accept handouts from the newcomer, or when his back is turned help yourself.

Eventually in Nineteen-one the six far flung colonies decided to federate with the founding fathers declaring the colony of Queensland couldn’t join the new federation unless it ceased its quasi slave trade and repatriated the Kanaks, as the islanders were known, back to their islands.

When eventually it was agreed to repatriate the Kanaks, many were simply dumped on the most convenient island and left to their own device, often coming to grief from that island’s inhabitants.

A job believed well done.

Now we can get on and develop this northern paradise as part of the state of Queensland and the Commonwealth of Australia but that remains a few years hence before Tate and his siblings will be known as Australians. The older settlers still considered themselves British but the youth, like Tate, were proud to call themselves Queenslanders. Even if Queen Victoria was said to be proud of the new colony’s name, most simply got on with filling every empty space with as many cattle as possible, while planting broad acres of anything that may sell.

Even with the repatriation a large number of islanders remained in the tropics and Queensland became a state in the federation but after federation and later with the introduction of the White Australia Policy, the Kanaks were unwanted, while the traditional owners of land were considered something to breed out or at best simply disregard, besides a southern city dweller could go a year or longer without encountering a dark skin therefore the problem didn’t exist. Not so in the tropical north, as many remained on traditional lands but such territory was quickly shrinking.

Within three years of Cairns’ foundation in eighteen seventy-six the population was fifteen hundred and by the end of the decade it had risen to seven thousand of which almost two thousand were Chinese with another seven hundred from the Coral Sea Islands being in most Kanaks who weren’t sent home. If a finger was pointed by some colonial official the reply would be, they aren’t islanders, they are indigenous. In truth many southern officials wouldn’t even know what an islander looked like.

Some distance to the north of Cairns was Cook’s Town named as Cook beached his ship there for repairs back in seventeen-seventy after hitting the reef. Later the name was changed to Cooktown becoming a port for the Palmer River gold fields also the developing pearling industry, soon outstripping Cairn’s population, as by the time Cairns reached seven thousand Cooktown had three times that number.

Some called Cooktown the pearl of the north but was considered so corrupted with its numerous brothels and bars, the only pearls were those the divers found on the Great Barrier Reef. Again as it was in Cairns there were many Chinese looking for Sun Gum Saan, translated to New Gold Mountain after Old Gold Mountain in California ran out of the yellow metal.

There was a danger in being Inscrutable in the area north of Cairns to the Cape as some of the natives about Cooktown had a liking for human flesh, being a habit learned when raiders from Melanesia came to party, more than likely the ancestors of the same Kanaks spoken of earlier. It was also suggested the natives preferred Chinese as they said the white man stunk, so on route to the Palmer River gold fields you would always find the Inscrutables nervously travelling in groups, never as individuals unless they wished to be placed on the menu.

Did the local natives mind the intrusion?”

Most definitely yes.

Especially when the newcomers soiled their water wells and shot most of the wildlife much of which as sport but in true European spirit the natives were soon put in their place.

In later years it would be church run missions but for now they were advised it would be advantageous if they moved further into the mountains and forest. Many simply remained camped among the crocodiles on the mudflats of Trinity Bay where they danced, sang their lamentations and constantly complained about the intrusion. Some fort back but they were soon sought out and disposed with.

In the year of seventy-five James Mulligan discovered rich deposits of tin ore on the Wild River high in the hinterland behind Cairns, so once again the European invasion of the preteen tropical rainforest was on and within the blinking of a native’s eye there were settlements across the vast Atherton Tableland. It was also discovered the climate on the high tableland was perfect for dairy cattle and farming then within another eye’s blinking John Atherton moved his family and a herd of cattle into the north to settle in the region.

Where did all this activity leave Tate Edwards and his siblings?

It left Tate dreaming on the banks of the Barron River at Smithfield a whisker’s breadth north of Cairns, while his sister Elsie struggled to keep some level of normality within the family.

By the time of his parent’s demise Tate had reached his thirteenth birthday becoming a wanderer, often away from home for days at a time returning with stores of wonder on what lay high in the mountains and in the deep crevasse where the Barron Rive tumbled through a violent gash in the landscape to meet the sea at Trinity Bay.

Tate had also learned how to associate with the natives and how to use their songlines to cross the craggy peaks of Lamb Range, on the occasion travelling all the way down to Mount Bellenden Ker. Yet there were some black men who showed little toleration towards a young friendly white lad but he soon learned how to avoid those whose people had speared the explorer Edmond Kennedy to death back in forty-eight.

The explorer Kennedy had been directed to survey the country for good grazing land from Rockingham Bay in the south to the Cape. He set out with a large party and many horses but it soon became obvious the horses were all but useless in the mountainous terrain, so the explorers continued on foot towards their arranged collection at Albany Island at the far tip of Cape York.

Eventually, while running short of supplies Kennedy left eight men behind as he hurried towards their rendezvous then one of the remaining men travelling with Kennedy accidentally shot himself. With two others the wounded man was also left as Kennedy and his friendly native guide Jacky-Jacky continued towards the arranged rendezvous. With less than twenty miles to the Cape, Kennedy was speared a number of times, leaving Jackie-Jackie to continue alone.

On reaching the Albany collection point Jackey-Jackey, whose actual name was Galmahra and as much alien to the local natives as was Kennedy’s party, explained the situation but by the time the rescue party reached the spot of Kennedy’s demise very little remained, as for Kennedy’s diary nothing was found only the leather satchel that once contained the journal, along with the blood stained shirt belonging to the wounded man.

A question could be asked.

Knowing the ways of the Cape natives, were they eaten?

As for Edmond Kennedy’s demise it could be said it was partly his own undoing because he displayed little humanity towards the indigenous people, calling them savages and impossible to civilise, saying it would be better to remove the children, as the adults were beyond redemption. Even so it isn’t possible to lay the blame directly on Kennedy’s attitude, before the incident that brought about his end there had been an altercation with the natives that he knew nothing about.

Tate had heard about the explorer and his demise from his history lessons and on one occasion while travelling high in the mountains had had met with an old black man who bragged about his youthful encounter, admitting it was his spear that gave the most grief to the explorer. When questioned on what happened to Kennedy and the men travelling with him, the black man commenced to jabber in his own language, a dialect unaccustomed to Tate’s ears.

Elsie unmarried at thirty-five was becoming old for her years as the strain of running the remanent of the family took away not only her youth but her sense of humour and no matter how often she tried Tate was a loose canon and if there was altercation he simply went bush, not returning until his belly craved for more than scavenged sustenance learned by watching what the natives collected.

If not roaming the forest Tate was often found dockside, as he had developed a love of ships, more so those powered by their black smoke belching steam boilers. Sometimes he would be invited on board and one occasion offered work by a Blackbirder’s captain doing illegal human trade with the Solomon Islands but the lad had a measure of humanity and after witnessing the treatment of those who came ashore from the traders, he was quick in declining.

You will need to find employment if you are to remain at home.

Elsie’s advice was often issued but quickly negated, like the natives Tate associated work as not part of his vocabulary.

“They have commenced cutting a road across Lamb Ridge to the tin mines at Herberton and Irvinebank; possibly you could find work on a road gang?” Elsie suggested one afternoon when she found Tate lazing about on the front verandah while she gathered from the kitchen garden for their evening meal.

Tate quickly scoffed Elsie’s suggestion as such work lacked imagination besides Tate was lithe, lacking the brawn of body or head to labour for ten hours each day for a pittance.

It was the captain of a coastal steam packet that slightly influenced the lad, offering Tate the position of cabin boy even if his age unqualified.

“What does the work entail?” Tate had innocently asked from dockside while gazing up into the ship’s rigging.

“To attend to my many needs,” the captain smirked from behind a brush of red whiskers while his dark beady eyes twinkle with projected desire.

“Needs sir?”

“I have many needs,” the captain admitted as his hand moved in suggestive motion towards his crotch.

“No thank you sir, for now I think best I remain ashore.”

“Tis’ a pity as a handsome young lad like you could be most efficient at attending to a captain’s hankering.”

“No thank you, I appreciate your offer but a life on sailor’s rations would not satisfy my gut.”

Had Tate warmed to the captain’s offer?

In part he had and in retrospect wondered long on what the man’s needs may be, as tales of sea-bound habits were common gossip amongst land lovers.

It is cyclone season although this year the eastern winds were late arriving, instead a constant humid drizzle kept most inside, with work on the Lamb Ranges road at a standstill from landslides and the development of fast moving streams where previously there were none. It was also reported part of a trestled roadway had given way, taking two workers to their demise in the turbulent waters below.

Tate had heard the news of the unfortunate navvies from a passer by while taking out scraps to feed the chickens.

“This rain is bad.” Humphrey Lorne grumbles as he pauses to express his thoughts while folding his long coat about his person to avoid the drizzle.

Droplets fall from his hat band to trickle down his spine.

Lorne gives a shiver.

“That is true Mr. Lorne but no wind.”

“It will come. I hear the pearling fleet has laid up in anticipation – and the road.”

“The road Mr Lorne?”

“Have you not heard?”

Tate pauses while waiting for the man to quantify.

“It is reported two gangers have already been swept away.”

“Has their names been posted?”

“Na’ not warranted they were only yellow buggers; we will soon be overrun by them, so a couple less could be considered advantageous.”

Tate ignored the man’s intolerance. He had become acquainted with one of their people Charlie Foo, a market gardener whose family had arrived in the colony of Victoria back in fifty-three with anticipation towards riches on the Ballaarat gold fields but found none. Instead their son Charlie Foo travelled north with a bag full of seeds from the old country and after taking up a plot of good soil near Smithfield beside the Barron River he grew cabbages and strange vegetables whose names would only be known by his countrymen.

Humphrey Lore moves on, he could still be heard complaining about the yellow invasion as he turned the corner towards the hotel on Lake Street. Once there he will park his arse for the rest of the wet day while finding a patient ear to listen to his grumbling.

“What was Mr. Lorne about?” Elsie enquires as Tate returned inside, shaking the drizzle from his head and coat over his sister’s clean floor.

Elsie gives him a disapproving glance but makes no comment.

“He said two men from the road gang have drowned.”

“Did he say who they were?”

“He said they were China Coolies.”

“Your brother Freddie has this week started work on the road; I do hope he is safe.”

“Knowing Freddie he will find a nice dry spot to loaf away in,” Tate gives affront towards his older brother’s character.

“At least Freddie has found employment.”

Elsie’s comment is well aimed at Tate’s procrastination but as predicted received nothing but a humorous titter from the youngest.

“It isn’t a laughing matter Tate, father may have provided us with a house but little more and if it wasn’t for what your brothers bring in we would be destitute.”

“I wasn’t laughing Elise but recalling an offer I received from a captain of a coastal trader out of Brisbane.”

“What was his offer?”

“I’m not quite sure but I don’t believe I would be pain in coin.”

“Once again you have confused me with your doubletalk.”

“Never mind, I may be making assumptions anyway.”

The rain becomes heavier, Elsie is standing at the kitchen window, her hands in a tub of dishwater, she is mesmerised by the thud of the heavy drops on the cracked pane of glass.

‘If it gets any heavier that glass will break right away,’ she thinks.

‘I must find someone to fix it before the crack completely takes out the pane.’

“Tate do you know a glassier?”

“What is a glassier when he is at home?”

“It is someone who fixes glass windows.”

“Get Freddie to fix it next time he comes home. He is good at fixing things.”

“I don’t know,” Elsie vacantly exhales as the last of the breakfast dishes is placed on the draining rack, she nods suggestion towards the drying cloth and Tate obliges.

“What don’t you know sis’?”

“What will become of us all?”

“We’ll get by we always do besides -.” Tate doesn’t elaborate further.

“If only father was here,” Elsie says.

“If dad was he would say the same.”

Elsie finishes the dishes; her thoughts are on the evening’s meal and what remained in the larder.

“What should I do for dinner?”

“Whatever,” Tate dismisses.

“Beef stew with your lovely dumplings,” the youngest sister Winnie calls from her sewing.

Elsie ignores her suggestion;

“Tate you will need to kill one of the chickens,”

“I could do that once the rain abates.”

“The one with the spots, she has stopped laying and will soon be too old for the pot.”

“I was talking with a black fella’ the other day,” Tate says.

“How can you talk with a savage?”

“I have learned much of their language, of the local lot that is. It is quite simple if you put your mind to it, as it doesn’t have all the restrictions our English has. Like the way they count.”

“I thought counting would be similar in any language.”

“No in most they have one, two, three then many and if it is a lot they repeat the word, like Wagga which means crow and Wagga-wagga means a whole bunch of them.

“Murder,” Winnie calls from the adjoining room.

“What?”

“Tate didn’t you learn anything at school, a lot of crows is called a murder of crows.”

“I think you made that up, no I digress I reckon that sounds like something Wilson would conjure.”

“Anyway what did this savage have to say?” Elsie asks.

“They aren’t savages Elsie, in truth they are quite smart and don’t have to work their lives into an early grave to survive.” Tate’s reply is in response to his sister’s slant on his lack of employment.

“Regardless what was the gist of your conversation?”

“Gist?”

“You know what I mean, stop being smart.”

“He told me how to kill a cassowary without getting your guts ripped out by its powerful legs and claws.”

“Are they dangerous?”

“The male is, especially if he is looking after chicks.”

“Can you eat them?”

“He said they taste like our chickens?”

“How would he know that?”

Tate laughs; “they steal enough of them to know.”

“Are there any cassowaries around Smithfield or Cairns?”

“They like the forest and are quite shy, so you need to sneak up on them and clobber them with a big stick.”

“Roasted cassowary could be a problem.”

“Why so?”

“If they are as big as you say, I don’t think I have a large enough baking dish, nor would they fit in the oven.”

“Do what the blacks do, light a fire in the yard and after burning away the feathers cover the bird with hot coals. If you want something smaller although a little gamey and would fit in the oven, I can hunt you a couple of Gweela.”

“What is a Gweela?”

“We call them bush turkey; I’ve eaten them although I find them a little stringy.”

Elsie huffs, “I don’t like the sound of that – you can empty the dishwater on the geraniums near the back steps, this time down slop it over my clean floor.”

Tate collects the tub of water and advances towards the rear door but the tub is quite full and slopping unavoidable.

“What did I say Tate!” Elsie growls.

“Not to slop the water.”

“Once you’ve emptied it you can get the mop.”

Wilson Edwards, the next up in age from Tate had found employment with a carter and the rain had cut short his day’s work, as the cart couldn’t manage the muddy conditions. It was mid afternoon when Wilson’s returns and with a lull in the rain he discovers Tate chasing the spotty chicken about the coop.

“Grab the bloody thing!” Wilson shouts at his brother from the open coop gate, where he is blocking escape from the remaining hens. One of the hens makes a dash for the opening but Wilson is too quick with his boot forcing her back in a flurry of feathers.

“What do you thinking I’m trying to do but she has an inkling what is about to happen.”

“At that rate you will bruise the meat.”

Tate pauses with his hands on hips, “then Wilson you do better.”

“Not my job brother,” Wilson laughs, closing the gate continues towards the house.

Entering inside Wilson hears the sound of capture from the spotted chicken, then moments later after much commotion there is silence.

“Whack!” Wilson loudly announces.

“Why do you say whack?” Elsie asks.

“The chicken’s head, Vapid was chasing it about the yard; it sounds like he eventually caught it.”

“Your brother’s not stupid Wilson.”

“Dumb enough.”

“Anyway what are you doing home this early in the afternoon?”

“You can’t work if the cart wheels become stuck in the mud, besides our delivery was house furnishings that would ruin if wet. If the rain stops we’ll have another go tomorrow.”

Was there animosity between Wilson and Tate?

If a stranger passed by he could be forgiven in believing so but there was a strong undertow of love between the boys and a striking resemblance even with Wilson being almost two years senior to Tate, although with the younger lad’s ability to accept most anything Wilson held sway over most encounters. Outwardly there was undeclared and open hostility but the lads had secrets they would never share with the others and when alone the bond became strong and personal, even if most was at Wilson’s invitation.

Elsie ignores Wilson’s slant against their brother as she takes a start with movement within her peripheral, she turns and spies Tate carrying the beheaded chicken, dripping blood across her clean floor.

As quick as a flash Elsie has a bucket, holding it below the drips.

“You boys never learn do you?” Elsie growls while Wilson stands aside with a smirk that would translate to I told you he was vapid.

“There is boiling water on the stove so you both can do the plucking, and take it outside; I spend enough time cleaning up after you lot as it is and don’t throw away the giblets as you did last time, they will be for tomorrow’s stew.”

Yuck,” Wilson protests.

“You’re the boss,” Tate agrees with a grin.

Slowly the feathers come away without conversation although Wilson appears lost in though.

“A penny for them,” Tate eventually speaks.

“It’ll cost you more than that penny you don’t have.”

“Like what?”

Wilson gives a cheeky grin, “you know.”

Tate ignores his brother while struggling with the larger feathers on the wing tips.

Wilson has been gazing at Tate for some time.

“What are you looking at?”

“You.”

“Then stop, it makes me nervous.”

“Why?”

“It means you are up to something and usually it ends up being something I don’t like.”

“Are you interested in a job?”

“That depends.”

“I hear the new telegraph office wants a delivery boy and all that is needed is to be capable riding a horse and smart enough to know north from south – possibly read and write and I think you are almost that smart.”

“I could use Freddy’s mare Patchy.”

“I believe the mount is supplied.”

“What would I have to do?” Tate asks.

“From what I understand you deliver telegrams and act as a general dog’s body about the office.”

“What is a telegram?”

“Some kind of message sent by wire up from Brisbane; or so I’m told.”

“How in flipping blazers can you send a letter along a length of wire?”

“I don’t think you send the actual paper it is written on. It has something to do with dots and dashes.”

“I’m still none the wiser.”

“Well what do you think, could you deliver messages?”

“I can’t see why not.”

“Then why don’t you apply. It would at least get Elsie off your back.”

The plucking is almost done.

“Tomorrow,” Tate says.

“What about tomorrow?”

“Tomorrow is Tuesday and I’ll go see what’s offering with that delivery job.”

“Goodonya’ kid, now take the chicken up to Elsie and then I have a little job for you.”

“What kind of job?”

Wilson is grinning; “you’ll see.”

Tate well understands his brother’s request.

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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