We left Adelaide on a grey May morning en route for the biennial Kerweneek Lowender Festival that celebrates the state's Cornish heritage. We drove through intermittent rain, leaving the outer suburbs of Adelaide behind and entering the market gardens and flat, dry farmlands to the north of the city. At the head of St Vincent Gulf we turned westwards to the quiet country towns of the 'Copper Triangle'—Kadina, Wallaroo and Moonta. My Quintrell ancestors had arrived in Adelaide in 1858, Cornish miners drawn by the copper finds in the mid-north of the new, 22 year-old colony of South Australia. In the last half of the century Moonta, and its satellite Moonta Mines, was the largest country settlement in South Australia. Now, with the mines merely a small heritage community attached to a small coastal town, Moonta is a pleasant place to wile away some nostalgic hours.

At an earlier visit, Liz, a member of the local National Trust, had offered us a conducted tour of the cemetery, now a National Trust memorial to the early settlers. The headstones are sprinkled with the names of my great-grandparents, great aunts, and distant relatives. In June 1897, when responsibility for the upkeep of cemeteries passed from a central to local authority, my great-grandfather Stephen Quintrell was responsible for the formal surveying of the cemetery.

Cemeteries are interesting places, carrying the social history of a place in unexpected ways. As one enters through the old iron gate in the high stone wall, there is a row of small unmarked mounds—the bodies of children who died of typhoid and diphtheria, courtesy of polluted ground water, in various epidemics. In one corner of the cemetery is the 'Jewish section'—the remains of just one Moonta family interred there—and there is one row reserved for Catholics, a reminder of the predominance of Methodism—Primitives, Bible Christians and Wesleyans—in the Cornish community.

Liz gave us a vivid description of a typical funeral procession. The cemetery is 3 miles from the mines and the pallbearers would lead, carrying the coffin. They would be followed by the mourners and the choir, singing the deceased's favourite hymns. Everyone would be dressed in black. After 1898, the cemetery bell, cast from local copper, would have announced the arrival of the procession. The minister's fervent prayers for the family of the deceased, enjoining them to believe that their loved one was now rejoicing in heaven with God and His angels, would have been punctuated with murmurs of 'Amen' and "Praise the Lord'.

Many gravestones have quotes from hymns, and I recognised lines from Tennyson that my grandfather used to quote

Sunset and evening star, and one clear call for me

And may there be no moaning of the bar when I put out to sea.

We paused at the gravestone of Bessie, the wife of Johnson Quintrell, an uncle of my grandfather's. Bessie died, aged 25 years, after the death of three babies within less than three years, none of them reaching six months of age. Died of a broken heart, we wondered? The confident belief in an after-life brought comfort to many in the face of deep tragedy, and part of Bessie's memorial reads

One family we dwell in Him,

One Church, above, below.

Though divided by the stream,

The narrow stream of death.

My great-grandmother Mary Ann would have taken the long walk to the cemetery many times for the funerals of friends, but also to mourn the death of family members. Three times between 1870 and 1874, she walked behind the tiny coffins of infant sons, Richard, John and Orlando, all of whom died before their first birthday. Her brother Hugh Datson, just a year older than Mary Ann, died in 1875 following a mine collapse. Then, three times during the First World War she received news that her adult sons had died. Two lie in the graveyards of Flanders Field; the third was buried at sea on the way home. The names of these three great-uncles of mine are inscribed on the First World War monument in the town. My great-grandmother's gravestone expresses the simple faith that survived her tragedies—of the thirteen children she bore, only six survived her. She died in 1934 and lies with her husband Stephen who died in 1913. Their headstone reads simply 'In God's care'.

Nearby, lie her four daughters—Alice Emma, Rosina, Mary Jane and Violet –'Resting'. I recalled visiting the little miners' cottage at Moonta Mines in 1959 where my grandfather Stephen Williams was staying with his sisters, Alice Emma and Violet. Alice Emma was 93, a gaunt old woman with a wild straggle of grey hair. She cautioned us to watch the hole in the board floor of the living room, covered by a worn rug. Violet, a young 75, bustled in the kitchen, baking Cornish pasties for our picnic at Moonta Bay.

Alice Emma died the next year and Violet in 1972. The place where the old cottage stood is now an empty paddock, where weeds grow.

                                               

On the Sunday evening of the festival, we travelled to Wallaroo to hear the Kerwon Choir, a male voice choir drawn from across Cornwall. The Wallaroo Town Hall, with its rich green drapes and high ceilings decorated with elaborate plaster mouldings, is a fine example of turn of century country grandeur. The flag of Cornwall, a white cross on a black background, was prominently displayed. A stooped, grey-haired man, modern-day representative of the Bards of Cornwall whose tradition stretch back into the mists of time, parted the stage curtains and stood waiting as the murmur of the crowded hall subsided. He wore a green and black tartan kilt and leaned on a tall staff. He welcomed us first in the Cornish tongue and then in English, his voice the strong, soft burr of the southwest of England. 'Cornwall is not a county, it's a country', he asserted, reminding us that the Cornish people, like their Celtic cousins in Wales, Ireland and Scotland, still view London as a foreign country. He spun brief humorous tales of miners and Bible salesmen before introducing the choir.

The choir's repertoire traced some of the history and spirit of Cornwall. I was taken back to childhood memories of summer Sunday mornings of my childhood when we would listen to the radio, with Peter Dawson singing 'The Cornish Floral Dance'

I heard the band with its curious tone

With cornet, clarinet and big trombone;

Fiddle, cello, big bass drum,

Bassoon, flute and euphonium.

Each one making the most of his chance –

All together in the Floral Dance.

The hymns of Isaac Watts and Philip Bliss spoke of the central place of the Wesleyan revival of the eighteenth century in Cornish history. Methodism, with its emphasis on individualism and the possibility of improving oneself by hard work and personal discipline, appealed to the Cornish psyche. It fitted comfortably into the ordered social fabric of the mining community where there was an accepted hierarchy of owners, mine 'captains', tribute workers (who bid for a share of the profits from their mining efforts) and 'tut' workers (those who worked for a wage). Although the hierarchy was clearly delineated, individuals could, by their own hard work, move themselves up the social order. This contrasted with the fixed social stratification of English society where privilege was inherited. The Cornish share a love of singing with their Welsh cousins across the Bristol channel and the emotionalism of many of the Wesleyan hymns also sits easily with the mixture of enthusiasm and pragmatism that characterises the Cornish personality. The choir took us through a range of hymns from the triumphant 'Jesus shall reign where'er the sun', and the darkly passionate 'When I survey the wondrous Cross', to the tender 'Let the lower lights be burning'.

We were then reminded of the fierce independence of the Cornish in the story of Bishop Trelawney. In 1685, France had established Catholicism as the only permitted religion. An attempt by James II of England to impose a similar restriction was opposed by several churchmen including Bishop Trelawney of Cornwall. Trelawney and his fellow rebels were charged with sedition and imprisoned. Legend has it that Cornwall assembled an army that was prepared to march on London to free them and the anthem 'Trelawney' (a synonym for Cornwall) celebrates this with the challenge

…and shall Trelawney live, or shall Trelawney die?

Here's 20,000 Cornishmen will know the reason why!

Trelawney and his fellow bishops were freed, and freedom of religion was established in Britain. The choir sang the anthem with fervor and we all stood as if for a National Anthem!

On Saturday, under a sky of scudding grey cloud, we drove to Kadina for the street parade. The main street was lined with maypoles, the ribbons of yellow, red, green, blue, black and white a bright counterpoint against the sky. Each of the primary schools of the area was represented and the girls, with hair garlanded with flowers and wearing traditional starched white pinafores over long floral dresses, practised their steps as they waited for the music to begin. Many of the crowd were in traditional costume; the 'mine workers' in shirtsleeves, waistcoats and miner's caps, a scarf knotted at the throat, and the 'mine captains' and surveyors in frock coats, cravats and bowler hats. The women's costumes also reflected social status ranging from the white blouses and long skirts of the working class women to the satins and flounces of those of higher social status. The fine hats of the latter with their plumes and vivid colours also confirmed their status compared with the 'jenny caps' of the others.

As I wandered among the crowd, it was easy to imagine the scene shifting back to an earlier time, and to allow the tarmac of the street to fade to dirt, with horse hitching posts and drinking troughs, the kerbside picked out with the local stone. The car, that would radically alter the world's social fabric, was a distant dream, and horses stood patiently waiting in the side streets. I let nearly 130 years drop away and allowed my imagination to create a similar celebration in May 1874.

                                                           

Two of the girls skipping and chatting as the wait for the music to begin are my great-aunts, Mary Jane, 8 years old and Alice Emma, who is 6. The older sister is one of the taller girls, her skinny wrists poking out from the already-too-small smock. She scolds her livelier sister, a pretty, vivacious scamp of a girl, who will not keep still and is already threatening to tangle the maypole ribbons. With my now-knowledge, I know that Alice Emma will be the one who, 30 years later, will give birth to a daughter, whose birth certificate will read 'father unknown'.

On the edge of the watching crowd is a small boy, about 3 or 4 years old, idly playing marbles in the dirt. He is dressed in the fashion of the time, shirtsleeves, waistcoat, and knickerbockers and long socks. His cap is a little too large for him and he takes it off and pushes it back on his head. He is my grandfather Stephen William. A small woman, wearing a jenny cap and a starched pinny over a floral dress, shifts the baby on her hip, bends down and speaks to him gently. She is only about 30 years old, but there is sadness in her eyes, as if life has already dealt her some hard blows. It is Mary Ann, my great grandmother, and the sadness comes from having lost two infant sons less than three years earlier. She cannot know but Orlando, the baby on her hip, will not live to see Christmas.

Next to her stands a small, stocky man dressed in his Sunday-best suit, waistcoat and bowler hat. He is bearded in the manner of the day with a chin beard and no moustache. As I watch him clean and fill his pipe, I am reminded of seeing my grandfather do this a hundred times. He is my great-grandfather Stephen, a mine surveyor with the Wallaroo-Moonta Company, a position that places him slightly above the mineworkers, but below the mine captains and supervisors in status. He is talking with a big man who towers above the crowd. They are discussing the opening of the newly finished North Yelta Methodist church that Stephen designed, and exchanging concerns that attendance at meetings is less than hoped for. They are considering how they might encourage a greater religious commitment among the young men of the district who seem more interested in football than church.

The big man is my great-grandmother's brother, Hugh Datson, a tall, strongly-built man who, although he is a respected 'class leader' in the Methodist Church is also feared for his fighting prowess. 'A punch from Hugh Datson was like a blow from a hammer' a later newspaper report claimed. Hugh will not see another May Day parade. On the 15^th March 1875 he will be involved in a mine collapse and die from the shock and injuries he receives. Ironically, his death will spark the religious revival that he and Stephen are discussing.

'[After Hugh Datson's death]… a great spiritual awakening followed in all the churches and hundreds were swept into the Kingdom in the special services which lasted 3 or 4 months.'[1]

(It is to be hoped that it was the 'spiritual awakening' and not 'the services' that lasted 3 to 4 months!).

The music begins – 'The Cornish Floral Dance'—and the children begin their skipping steps, weaving in and out to form the patterns of the maypole. One of the poles begins to rock and a young man jumps out of the crowd and comes and sits on the base to steady it. It is one of Hugh's sons, Edward, who laughs and claps along in time with the music. When the dance is finished he takes a bow along with the girls, doffing his cap to the crowd. He takes his cousins Mary Jane and Alice's hands and brings them back to the family group. Edward will be a witness to his father's accident and death next March, and he will tell the coroner's enquiry

'On Monday morning about 11 o'clock I was wheeling at the pitch at Hogg's shaft. After I had finished wheeling, my brother asked if I was going to crib. Went with him to the adjoining pitch, Champions, about 10 fathoms from ours. We sat down and commenced eating crib, 5 of us. We had just finished and father and Peter Champion were talking. The ground fell without warning from above our heads. We called for help and the Champions, who were about 6 feet away came and got us out, and laid us down about 6 feet away from the place, myself, father and my brother, William Henry. Saw Mr Lukey, Mr Bray and the 2 Champions take my father away. Got up and went to see how my brother was. Asked him how he was getting on. He said "Pretty well." I then, with assistance, got up as far as the down right where I had a lashing thrown me and was taken to my Uncle's (Stephen Quintrell's) house.[2]

Hugh sustained two broken femurs, and may have also had subdural bleeding from a blow to the head. The doctors who attended him reported that 24 hours later he 'was comfortable considering the injuries he had received. He was easy in his mind, and cheerful.' However, after another 24 hours he was unconscious and he died the following day.

                                                           

A sudden flurry of rain whips the flags on the shop verandahs and returns me from my reverie. The dance is ending, and the girls of today take their bows along with one of their older brothers who has been the anchor for the maypole. The woman next to me in the crowd, wearing a bright floral dress, pinny and jenny cap shifts the baby on her hip. He too is dressed for the occasion in a bright floral vest. He takes the cap from his head and offers it to me. We smile at each other as the sun breaks free of the clouds for a brief moment and warms our faces. On the corner opposite our friends wave to us and we join them.

'Cornish pasties?' they suggest, and we make our way to the bakery to consume the traditional pasty that may well have been part of Hugh Datson's last crib.

c. Neil Quintrell

 

* This article was subsequently published in the local newspaper and led to contacts from my cousins Brian Cooper and Glen Grigg whom I had never met.