Dirty Rotten Scoundrels #2: John Rendall Cave

So, a while ago I posted about the fact I had relatives in SA whose surname was Cave. At the time I made quite a joke about famous Caves, possible connections, yada yada. Anyway, after a little further investigating, it turns out that in their day they WERE famous Caves, and not the ones in Naracoorte either.

Susanna Darby, my ancestor George's sister, married Charles Cave. He had formerly been a yeoman farmer at Stoke Parsonage, these days known as The Priory. Her own father was also a yeoman farmer, in Pitney. I remember reading the excellent book about the Darbys in South Australia written by Basil Darby, who found it unusual that George and Mary could afford their own passage to SA (I believe he even used the words 'scraped together their passage'), and I had always shared the assumption they would not have been well off. Since reading about the Caves I've realised that a yeoman farmer owned upwards of 100 acres of his own land and was considered part of the middle class, which explains a lot about what happened when they got to Australia.

Stoke Priory. Not bad, hey?

 

George set up farming in Coromandel Valley, while his sister Susanna and brother-in-law Charles owned a farm at Sturt and a property on King William Street. Several female members of the family married prominent businessmen, one married the former aide-de-camp of Governor Macquarie, and some married regular joes (that would be my branch of the family. Typical.) Several male members of the family became prominent businessmen and public officials, including William Rendall Cave, explorer, merchant, ship owner, composer, Consul to Chile,  and all-round over achiever. Hell, he even started a wheat buying scandal decades before the AWB got in on the act! South Australian readers will see the genealogy on his Wikipedia page contains some of the most eminent names in our state. Nobody else I'm related to has ever aspired to the lofty (pun-intended) heights of owning not one but TWO mansions.

While every family has its shining light, they also have their black sheep, and it just happens in this particular branch of the family they are father and son. Yeah, that's him... near the bottom of the Wikipedia article. John Rendall Cave.

John was without a doubt educated at one of Adelaide's finest schools (*note to self - find out which schools the kids went to. Bet it's something with its own archive*), possibly succeeded his father as Consul to Chile, and would have been set up to be successful in business. He would have been given every possible advantage in life. But for what did he appear in the papers? His enormous profit margins? Civic service? Philanthropy? Being a stalwart of the Church? No: he appeared most regularly for getting sentenced to 12 months in gaol (and then avoiding serving the term) for pressuring a domestic servant to abort his child, a move which resulted in the death of the unborn baby and Antonie Hedwig Klemich, the young woman in question.

Grave of Antonie "Tonie" Klemich

 

The flowers were from me. I felt so bad when I read about her yesterday that I headed off to see her straight away. One thing which was something of a relief was that it seems someone has really looked after her plot. It is in pristine condition, despite being 105 years old. Antonie was not from a family of means. She 'got into trouble', and tried to remedy the situation by taking some very drastic measures. There's many a family that would have pretended not to know her on her deathbed, much less interred her with due respect. While she said that she was "very bad", it's obvious that those who knew and loved her did not feel the same way. Kudos to them for ensuring their poor darling girl received a decent burial. If this whole story reveals the despicable, exploiting behaviour of John Rendall Cave, it also shows the absolute decency of Alwyn (pronounced 'Alvin' I would presume) Klemich and his family.

 

To follow up, in 1930 Cave was written up in the Police Gazette for failing to provide maintenance to his wife and children. The newspaper trail clearly indicates a marriage break-down, the children staying with their mother who tragically died only seven years later.

 

Most of his family are buried together, but there is no sign of him. Perhaps he went to Chile? Perhaps he changed his name and moved away? Naturally I'm curious to find out what happened. I have contact details for someone I am certain would know, but what elderly person wants a phone call about their father when he's a guy like that?

 

Yeah... so not going to be dialling that number any time soon.

 

Edited to add: have heard from a relative who informs me that John formed a succession of somewhat dodgy relationships before dying in 1957 at the home of his last love interest, the woman who ran the Royal Admiral Hotel and farmed pigs at Port Adelaide. It seems somehow appropriate.

 





The Brick Fortress

 Once upon a time I thought my great-grandfather was going to be my perennial brick wall. We all know about Irish records, right? I love the heroes of the Easter Rising to bits but I'd love to slap each and every one of them silly for burning all those wonderful records in the Four Courts. I'm partially right: I still haven't got any further back than his parents and siblings and working out he almost certainly was a young nationalist fleeing conflict, which had always been my suspicion.

An early photo of Great-Grandfather Patrick McDermott, taken just after his arrival from Galway.

However, it turns out since I married and begun delving into the in-laws' family, that in fact, my biggest brick wall is actually hubby's mum's family. They have presented so many obstacles that I have dubbed that line the Brick Fortress and all but given up on ever finding a solution. In fact, I have even started assembling questions to put to the Genealogy Psychic, I'm that desperate for a lead! I know, right?

So, here in no particular order are the problem people:

1) Her mother, Sheila May Smith.

Yep, Smith.

Daughter of Nellie Smith and... who? Nope, we don't know.

Column 4... Thanks a fucking bunch

Nellie Smith has proven elusive, connections to any Stanleys have been untraceable. I do know that Sheila changed her name in 1940 and that the paperwork was witnessed by her future brother-in-law, William Taylor. MIL has not shed any light on any of it and seems to have been happy to live in ignorance about her grandparents (which, frankly, I find hard to believe given she is Mrs. Nosy Questions!)

But Smith, that's something to go on with... right?

2) Her father, Kenneth Taylor.

His mother was Elsie May James. According to the records, she was born in Blinman, or Hay, in 1883, 1887 or 1890. There are no SA or NSW records even close to being her. You get where I am headed here... Elsie's unreliability with her personal information has made her very difficult to trace. One record says her father's name was Samuel, so that's the main thing I've been working on.

There are some records relating to an Elsie James, daughter of Samuel, but these are for Elsie Alice James in 1886 in Fitzroy, Victoria, daughter of Samuel Arthur James and Alice Cleak. There is an article in the paper in 1900 where Samuel A James of Warragul refers to his daughter's recent awards in music (West Gippsland Gazette, Warragul Guardian). Warragul is an hour and a half from Heyfield/Sale, the significance of which will become apparent later in this post. The general correlation of facts (father's name, approximate year, recurrence of the name "Alice" in our family) leave this at the leading possibility for our Elsie's birth, which of course leaves us with the question about why she just didn't provide that information?

Then of course there's the issue of Kenneth's father and step-father.

The step-father first: at her second marriage in 1927, Elsie gave her name as James, but the wedding was performed at Mrs. Taylor's residence. She married Walter Herbert Russell, who I believe was probably the one born at Anna Creek in 1888. The couple had one child, Colin. She then apparently moved to Broken Hill, became widowed and later returned to Blinman before following her children to Adelaide. What happened to Walter Herbert Russell? Who knows! No, I'm serious - who knows? I'd like to find out! However, what happened to him is nowhere near as mysterious as the issue of Kenneth's father.

Scandals and Suicide in the Scrub 

When I first heard anything about Mr. Taylor, it was from one of my mother-in-law's cousins. She said his name was William, and she believed he killed himself. I subsequently discovered that according to his children's birth records, he was born around 1877 in either Sale or Heyfield, worked in the Blinman area, had 6 children in 1916 and had died by Jan 1922 when Kenneth was born in Adelaide. Prior to his death he had been a station manager.

Those of you who know your SA geography will know I'm talking about a very remote part of the state which is fairly sparsely inhabited, so when I struggled to find William in Victorian records and couldn't find likely deaths in 1921, I did the sensible thing and searched Trove for likely matches - 'Taylor AND Blinman', that sort of thing. And what did I find? A whole pile of articles about this incident here: 





Holy Toledo!

This sounded quite a likely match up for our William, so I set about finding out as much as I could about the case and the William Taylor involved to see if he was our guy.

William Thomas Taylor was born in Sale around 1877. Tick. He started an affair with Mildred Maud (Milly) Roberts who had been born in 1896 in Blinman. She was the governess at Angorichina Station (in the Blinman/Beltana area) where he worked as a station manager. Tick. This was highly scandalous as he was married, and had six children. Tick. The couple caught the train south, got off at Whyte-Yarcowie, walked to the edge of the scrub about three miles from town and committed suicide by swallowing strychnine on the property "Greens", owned by John Hale, who knew Taylor from previous station work. The police buried the bodies in an undisclosed location on free ground in the Terowie Cemetery. The family were not recorded on his death certificate but are alluded to in several articles, and the fact they refused to claim his estate would seem to suggest they no longer wished to be associated with him in any way.

Case closed, right? This is Kenneth's dad fer shure!

You've all worked out the problem though, I know. Kenneth Taylor was born in 1922. This happened in 1916. Either that's the world's longest gestation or Elsie James told a BIG FAT LIE when she said William Taylor was Kenneth's father. I'm afraid that I'm going with the latter as the most likely, applying the Sherlock Holmes principle that "when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth". I know Elsie was unreliable with personal details. I know there was a huge gap before Kenneth was born. I know that she gave birth in a city 100s of kilometres from her normal place of residence. I know that the exact location of his birth was a hospital which primarily served single mothers. I know that William Taylor, husband of Elsie, bears far too striking a resemblance to William Taylor, lover of Milly Roberts.

So who is Kenneth's dad? Well, she didn't marry Walter for another five years, so I'm guessing it's not him. Who else could it be? (And how long is a piece of string?)

Who knows, maybe one day hubby's DNA test will shed some light on the whole situation! In the meantime, it's back to the fortress!



 Kenneth Taylor: International DNA Man of Mystery

Outcome of my Travels

Well, I know you are all waiting with bated breath (hahahaha! - Sorry, did I laugh out loud?) to hear about my trip to the mid-north. So without further ado, let me launch into Boring Travel Monologue #1.

In between the actual work which I had been sent to do (which I did do, but I'm not going to write about) I squeezed in four cemeteries, 1 pioneer garden, 1 church, 1 family history society, 1 museum, 1 railway  station, 1 gaol and 422 kms. Only 1 winery, and that was because it's attached to the church (gotta love the Jesuits!) Happy with that. I also brainstormed a pile of memes to make for the blog, so all in all it was a pretty productive few days.

On the way there I stopped to pay a courtesy call to my 4x great grandparents, George and Mary Darby, who are interred in the Riverton Cemetery. They are buried close by to their daughter Annie, who for some reason had her maiden name used on her headstone even though she was married. Very weird, especially since her husband was a B-grade celebrity.

Probably the only time a family history researcher has driven into Riverton Cemetery with Limp Bizkit's "I did it all for the Nookie" playing on their ipod. Loudly.

I also visited another of their daughters, Elizabeth, who is interred in the old cemetery. It has since been redeveloped as a pioneer garden (I fucking hate that - especially as a celebration. Yay, the state is 120 years old, let's celebrate by desecrating the graves of our pioneers! What a great idea! Fucktards.), but luckily hers is one of the stones which has been retained. While I will never know the exact spot she lies with her newborn son, at least I could see her tombstone <insert rant about sacred sites here>. I then spent Day 2 in planning. Of course as genealogy synchronicity so often has it, that same day I received an email from another of the Darby descendants who is planning a trip to Pitney, their original home. Always funny how that happens!

Before checking in at the hotel I also went to the Clare Museum, on the lookout for my Lavis related family history mysteries. The volunteer there was extremely helpful and dug up the Maynard family history book. Unfortunately the book's author knew about as much as I did, and had even omitted any reference to the Bigamy Incident, so no joy there. Although there were many Maynard related things in the museum, nothing further could be found about the Lavises.

Day 3 I went to visit a site which is of family and local history significance, the Sevenhill Winery/Church/Cemetery. It's the oldest winery in Clare, was once host to St. Mary Mackillop, and is also where her spiritual director, Fr. Tappeiner, is interred. It's also a place where some of my husband's family, the Fudges, worshipped and were interred. I went on the walk hosted by the exceptional Br. John May, former head wine-maker of the Sevenhill winery. One of the stops we missed but which features in the walk booklet is the World Youth Day cross. In the booklet it makes it sound like it is the actual World Youth Day cross which is up in the Radiata Pine grove, but the WYD cross carries on its journey the following WYD, so I'm not sure exactly what it is that's up in the grove. If it had been the actual cross I'd have taken the time, as the cross and icon are very special to me, but I was a bit too busy for replicas and commemorative models.

Day 4 was pretty action-packed. When I was doing the dog-leg to Riverton I realised I was going to be not-a-million-miles from Burra and Hanson, which are also areas of importance to the family, so Day 4 I hit the road (again) and went out to Burra.

The first stop was the cemetery. There are a few married-into-the-family types who are interred there, but I must admit I completely forgot about them in my hurry to see one very special person: a four month old baby named Mervyn Clifford Dawson.



Mervyn's grave-site at Burra Cemetery

Mervyn is my great-uncle, and he's definitely my Sad Story #1. Mervyn was the son of my great grandmother, Ethel Gladys McPherson, and someone... maybe my great grandfather, but probably not. Although her family lived in Hanson (about 12km from Burra), he was born in Alford. She was probably sent to stay with family to hide the shame etc. etc. because Glad was not married at the time (Yes, they'd have a fit if they knew I was stating this on public record, and no, I don't give a fuck. Ethical considerations are good and all, but they shouldn't have to be ashamed about that beautiful baby boy.) Four months later, Glad was back with the family in Hanson. In August Mervyn died of pneumonia, and his death certificate refers to him as the son of William John Dawson, who was Glad's father. Glad was the eldest daughter, so it's pretty obvious that Mervyn had been passed off as her parents' son. They'd had their last child the previous year, so it was probably a fairly convincing story to Burra folks. I doubt anyone in Hanson believed it.

Like most family historians I am beset by babies who were taken from us all too soon. However, Mervyn troubles me for a number of reasons.

1. He's the only one I know for a fact was lied about during his life-time
2. He was my grandmother's half-brother, but I don't know if she even knows he exists, and of course I am not game to ask in case she doesn't know
3. I wonder what manner of mummy-guilt my great-grandmother must have suffered with, between the circumstances of his conception, his birth, his illness, her other son's death many years later in the war...
4. Glad's parents were expecting her when they married, so pot, kettle, black to them.
5. Oddly enough, Mervyn's existence was alluded to by a tarot reader I saw in the late 90s, who said that my grandmother had a brother who died as a baby, but I didn't find out about him for many years after that.

I checked first with the wonderful folks at the Burra History Group, and their VERY helpful president Meredith sent me a mud-map of the cemetery plus directions for where to find the map AT the cemetery so that I could locate Mervyn's grave. He is buried in a section where very few headstones remain, but by a stroke of extreme good fortune he is buried on the intersection of two pathways, which made his site miraculously easy to find (some of that genealogical serendipity that strikes from time-to-time). I sat alongside Mervyn and had a thoroughly good cry for quite a long time. I am happy to have had the chance to visit him. I was probably the first family member to visit him in some 60-odd years, and also probably the first to visit him with full knowledge and acceptance of the circumstances of his birth. I left him a toy car, and continued somewhat regretfully on to the next stop.





Redruth Gaol

Most people who go to visit Redruth Gaol are there out of interest in its role as the prison in what was once SA's largest country town, its history as a girls' reformatory, especially the infamous riot which led to its closure, or ghost hunting. However, I visited because my great-great grandfather Edwin Francis Gough was once the 'turnkey' there, and was sacked in 1864 after allegedly assaulting a prisoner. While he appealed the matter and it ended up in a parliamentary hearing, he was not successful and ended up applying for a store license in Moonta the following year. It was the beginning of a major decline in the family's fortunes, no doubt the subject of a future blog entry!

Burra is a small place, but I had two more important stops: the Burra railway station, where my great-grandfather probably once worked as porter, and the surrounding suburb of Aberdeen where my grandmother was born almost 100 years ago. Unfortunately I missed taking pictures in Morehead Street where Mervyn died or of the Methodist Manse on Jessie Street where my great-grandparents married. Maybe next time.

On the way back to Clare, I stopped in at Hanson. Hanson was the residence of the Dawson family for several years, including the time that Mervyn was born and that my great-grandmother Glad met and married Francis McPherson. My great-great grandfather William John Dawson taught the local school and was noted in the area for his enthusiastic support of the Belgian Relief Fund during the war years. There isn't much there any more, but the Methodist Church still stands along with a few houses. I don't know to what degree my ancestors worshipped in that Church as it was Wesleyan Methodist, and Glad chose to get married in the other Methodist Church in Burra.

There's also this building... looks like a schoolhouse to me!

On my last day in the Clare Valley, I stopped into the Clare Family History Group. They have some wonderful resources, and I definitely want to go back another time to check their Northern Argus indexes and land records. However, the volunteers (including the lovely lady from the museum!) were busy with older visitors and I wasn't able to get much help locating anything useful. I did find the school register for Hanson, probably written by my great-great grandfather William John Dawson, but no light on the Martin/Maynard/Lavis/Wiseman conundrum after all of that! :(

I did deliberate about a more extensive stop in Tarlee on the way back, but scrubbed it out in favour of getting back to the two littlest twigs of the family who I knew would be keen to catch up again. After all, the Tarlee school has been there for over 100 years, so it will probably still be there next time I get the chance to go to Clare! I also didn't get to Terowie, where my great-uncle Ron was born.

All in all, it was a quite successful trip. I didn't solve any of my mysteries, but I did do some other things which needed to be done, and still got my work done to boot.