INFLUENCES

Family, bushrangers, and Great Grand Fathers

So, who has not wondered where they came from? I mean, what was my family like a generation ago, or even maybe two, three or four generations ago? Okay, sure, most younger people don’t wonder, but I can assure you that as life goes on and you start to realise your mortality, you will start to wonder where it all started, or at least how come I am like I am. What made the man, what made Peter Spencer, Peter Spencer?

Around 1982, I first got the urge to look further into my family history and find out what my ancestors were like. Well, not exactly my ancestors; firstly, I wanted to know what my grandparents were like. You see, I did not know my grandparents at all. I used to hear the other kids talking about their grandparents, how they visited them and how their Pop and Nan gave them presents and lots of lollies. Surely that's what any kid would want: loving, caring grandparents? I didn't get any, or at least my parents didn't introduce me to any.

I should explain a bit. Both my grandmothers died in 1955, and I was born in 1958, so it was a little hard to get to know them, I suppose. My maternal grandfather died in 1963. He lived in Inverell, a 2-day drive from our home on Sydney's North Shore. My paternal grandfather died in 1969… when I was 11 years old… so how come I didn’t know him… how come I have no memory of him at all? How come all my cousins talk so fondly of him, but I was kept from seeing him, let alone getting to know him? How come I can never ever remember my father visiting his dad? How come my father or mother, for that matter, never took me to visit my one surviving grandparent while he was still alive? Was there some sordid history with this man? Was he a criminal my parents didn't want around their son? Or is there another, more sinister, cloak-and-dagger style reason that I will never get to the bottom of?

So, I thought I would delve into the Spencer family; I’ll start with my father.

Dad was a good poet and storyteller, and he left behind lots of writings on pieces of paper when he passed in 2015, at almost 92. Although he wrote well and could talk the leg off an iron pot with others, I can never remember him chatting with me much. However, I will cut him some slack on that subject, as I am sure most blokes of that generation were like that. One funny incident I can remember was when I was about twelve or thirteen years old. I had just gone to bed and was lying there reading. Dad came into my room and sat on the end of the bed. I didn't know what to think, as he had never done this before. ‘Pete,’ he said. ‘Mmm,’ is all I got out. ‘Your mum has told me it is time for me to have a little chat with you.’ ‘Ok.’ ‘Pete.’ He said again. ‘Yes.’ ‘Do you know how babies are made?’ Dad said, looking at the ceiling. ‘Yes.’ I replied. ‘Well, thank God for that.’ Dad announced with relief in his voice. With that, he slapped his knees, got up, and walked out of my room. My dad and I, well, we could have talked for hours.

Now I'd digressed somewhat from the question I was going to ask my father. I wanted to know what my grandparents were like. ‘Dad, how come I never got to know my grandfather, your dad?’ Straight away I knew I had hit a sore point; I could read the body language, and the huge sigh was a dead giveaway. ‘Oh, um, I don’t know, Pete. We were never a real close family, and um, that was um just how it was.’ Dad really stumbled even to get this airy-fairy answer out. ‘Ok.’ I thought of some even simpler questions that might get him to open up a bit. ‘Was granddad buried or cremated?’ ‘Um, I think he was cremated.’ ‘Ok, what was done with his ashes?’ I prodded. ‘Um, nope, I don’t have a clue; maybe they were scattered with my mother’s, maybe in Melbourne somewhere.’ ‘Oh, Ok, were her ashes scattered in Melbourne?’ ‘Nope, I couldn’t tell you that either; maybe in Melbourne, as when my sister died, during the war, from an ectopic pregnancy, she was in Melbourne, so maybe Mum is with her.’ So, you see, I was getting nowhere fast. I even phoned some of my Spencer cousins, and they were also of no help in finding out the nitty-gritty about the Spencer family. On the other hand, my mother was a font of knowledge about her family, the Moncktons.

She knew everything about her parents, their parents, and their offspring, the convicts, the bushrangers… wait, what? ‘Yes, your great-grandfather was a bushranger.’ She announced. ‘Really? Tell me more.’ ‘He rode with Fred Ward, also known as Captain Thunderbolt, for three years. The Glen Innes police captured him and sentenced him to six years' imprisonment. The police shot Captain Thunderbolt in 1870, and he is buried in Uralla Cemetery. Late in Grandfather's life, he made a statutory declaration saying that the police shot the wrong man near Uralla and the real Thunderbolt got away.’ The conversation went on for years, and I developed a strong interest in this man, William Monckton, my great-grandfather. It led me to research the Thunderbolt story he supposedly claimed was true, and through my investigations, I formed my own opinion. Too Young to Hold a Gun and I am Captain Thunderbolt should help you to see that my beliefs are based on my research. I discovered that my great-grandfather, William Monckton, had sixty-one grandchildren. My mother was number fifty-seven of the sixty-one. As I write this bio, only three of the grandchildren remain, including my mother. This got me thinking… where are all my relatives now, all the descendants of this William Monckton? So, I made it my mission for over a decade to track them down as best I could. My wife Linda and I have seen this mission through, finding hundreds of ‘family’ members across the country. It was from ‘getting to know’ this wider family that I realised I'd come to ‘know’ William Monckton. This ‘knowledge’ allowed me- no, pushed me- to write his story through his eyes, about his colourful life.