Coolgardie Miner Saturday 23 June 1894, page 5
He Threw a Seven – by Smiler Hales
He came to Coolgardie among the first army of gold seekers who invaded this State, intent on burgling nature’s treasure chest. He was only one of the gallant band of pioneers, who, leaving home and loved ones far behind them, faced the clangers and privations of this waterless region. His name was Murtagh (Murty) Broderick and the snows of winter had whitened the beard and bared the head of the old miner.
For many a long year, he had roved the goldfields of Australasia, working as men of his breed do work, joyous in his hours of good fortune, patient and persevering when he had a streak of hard luck. Only a private in the restless, energetic, ever-moving army of prospectors who are daily and yearly facing dangers that city men never dream of.
I saw him only a few days back at Fly Flat, delving amidst the network of abandoned claims, hoping to strike narrow seams of unworked ground. Many a big nugget had been unearthed there on the ground that sloped down from Bayley’s, and as the old man worked away hardily, wi
th his strong arms like whipcord and his bronzed neck bare to the kiss of sun and wind, his thoughts went back to the humble home in N.S.W. where his gray-haired wife sat patiently by the cottage fireside in the evening and as she darned the old frock, thought of and prayed for the man who in his lusty manhood, had taken her now with her hand in his for life’s long journey.
On Tuesday last he was working away as steadily as ever, down a good few feet in a bit of treacherous ground, and was undermining on a bit of lead that looked like ending on pay dirt when down came the treacherous dirt, caving him in, choking up the strong chest, crushing the rugged life, sending his soul into that unpegged territory from which no traveller returns.
I saw him once again. A trooper stood beside his lifeless body that lay stiff and cold in an iron hut in Coolgardie. He was dressed in his mining clothes, rough and rugged, but on his honest face rested a gentle smile. He followed his luck to the end, Murtagh had ‘thrown a seven’, and when we follow suit, hand in our checks and quit, may we be found, like him, square at our post. Wednesday they planted him, out in the open, where the clear stars will shine, close to Coolgardie camp; so that the miner’s soul hanging around at times, when there’s no business on where he’s prospecting, may take a midnight stroll and hear the great hum of life rising, and rolling, and swelling-from the heart of the camp in Coolgardie.
Broderick Murtagh is buried in the Coolgardie Pioneer Cemetery.
