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Faith and Discovery: Hamilton’s Early Settlers

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Hamilton was settled by the 4th Waikato Regiment Militia in 1864. Captain William Steele led them. They arrived on the Rangiriri, a small steamboat, on 24 August. As the boat came up the river, the local people stood on the banks, watching quietly. Among the passengers was Teresa Vowless. She held her baby in her arms but passed the child to another woman as they neared the shore. Without a word, she leapt into the river. Teresa wanted to be the first settler to set foot on this new land. Some said it was her faith in God that drove her. She believed she had been led there for a reason.

The land, however, was far from what the settlers expected. Much of it was swamp. They had been promised fertile ground, but many struggled to farm. By 1868, most of the settlers had given up and left. Hamilton’s population dropped from 1,000 to 300. Those who stayed had to rely on faith that somehow, their future would improve. In 1875, hope came in the form of a brickworks that opened in town, offering jobs and a sense that Hamilton could grow. But for many, faith was the only thing keeping them going.

In 1882, Eliza Beckett came to Hamilton. She was a widow with three children, and her life had been hard. After her husband died in an accident, she had little to her name. A distant cousin had told her about Hamilton. “Go there,” they said. “They need workers, and you’ll find a fresh start.” Eliza believed it was God who had guided her path. She had been praying for a way forward.

At first, she found work at the new brickworks, hauling clay. It was back-breaking labor, but she was thankful for the work. “God provides,” she often said, though the men around her didn’t understand why a woman would speak of faith while working in such rough conditions. Eliza saved her wages, trusting that one day, she would leave Hamilton for a better life.

One day, while working, Eliza overheard a conversation between two men. One was Thomas White, a local landowner, and the other was a man she didn’t recognize. He was quiet and spoke with conviction. They were standing by the kiln, talking in low voices. “The land’s no good,” Thomas muttered. “I don’t care what the others say—it’s cursed.”

Eliza listened, intrigued. The quiet man responded calmly. “It’s not the land, Thomas. It’s what lies beneath it. There’s something here—something God has hidden for a reason.”

Eliza pondered his words. That evening, as she prayed with her children before bed, she thought about what she had overheard. She believed that if God had hidden something, it would only be revealed when the time was right.

Days passed, and soon there was talk of a strange discovery. A local worker had uncovered something unusual while digging near the swamp. Eliza couldn’t get the details, but people whispered about it in town. Some said it was an ancient relic. Others spoke of bones. No one seemed to know for sure.

Eliza’s curiosity grew. She believed this might be connected to the conversation she had overheard. One afternoon, as she left the brickworks, she saw Thomas White again. He was standing with a group of men outside the general store. “We should’ve left it alone,” he was saying. “We’ve disturbed something that was meant to stay buried.”

Eliza approached. “What did you find, Mr. White?”

He looked at her, hesitant. “Best not ask, Mrs. Beckett. It’s not for us to know.”

Eliza didn’t push, but later that night, she prayed. She asked for guidance, for God to show her what this discovery meant. The next day, she walked out to the edge of town, to the place where the land was boggy and still. She found the spot where the men had been digging. The ground was freshly disturbed, and Eliza, believing this was God’s way of answering her prayers, began to search.

She found something half-buried in the mud. It was small, heavy, and wrapped in cloth. As she unwrapped it, a strange feeling came over her. She wasn’t sure what it was, but it felt important—holy, even. She believed it was a sign.

A week later, two men came to her door. One was Thomas White. The other was the quiet man from before, his eyes filled with a certain intensity.

“Mrs. Beckett,” Thomas said, “we need to talk.”

Eliza stepped outside, her Bible clutched in one hand. “What about?”

Thomas sighed. “You took something from the ground. We need it back.”

Eliza’s heart raced. “I don’t know what you mean.”

The quiet man stepped forward. “There are two ways to look at this,” he said calmly. “Some believe it’s a blessing, something sacred. Others say it’s dangerous, meant to stay hidden. Which do you believe?”

Eliza stood firm. “I believe God has a plan. If He wanted it hidden, He wouldn’t have let me find it.”

The man nodded. “Perhaps. But not all things revealed are meant for us.”

Eliza prayed that night, holding the strange object close. She asked for wisdom, for a sign that she was doing the right thing. The next day, she returned to the place where she had found the object. There, she felt a stirring in her spirit, something telling her to let go. She knew it was time to return what she had taken.

She found Thomas White in town the following morning. “You were right,” she told him. “It wasn’t meant for me.”

In the end, Eliza understood that what she had found wasn’t a treasure or a curse. It was a test of faith. She had believed God had given it to her, but in truth, He was asking her to trust Him enough to let it go. She had always been faithful, but now, she saw that true faith wasn’t about holding on—it was about surrender.

Hamilton went on, with its struggles and its growth. And Eliza Beckett remained a woman of faith, known for her quiet strength and wisdom. In the end, the object was never spoken of again, but those who knew the story understood its lesson. It was not what was found in the ground that mattered, but what was found in the heart.

The Mystery of USS Pelican: Exmouth’s Hidden Story

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The town of Exmouth, as it stands today, hides a layered history beneath its tranquil shores and the steady hum of tourists. Established during the Second World War, it was initially conceived as a critical naval base, a lifeline for Allied submarines struggling against the Japanese. Officially known as “Potshot,” this spartan outpost provided the means for refueling submarines after the retreat from Java in 1942. Its remote location made it ideal—far enough from air raids that plagued cities like Darwin and Broome.

The base was no glamour post. It was bare-bones, centered around a 500-ton unmotorized refueling barge, anchored at the mouth of Exmouth Gulf. Here, sailors found a strange reprieve from the war—sun, sand, and the bitter sense of isolation that came with knowing they were part of something secret and dangerous. Admiral James F. Calvert would later write about the base in his memoir, describing its harsh conditions and the daring men who rested there only to return to the dark waters below.

Potshot was also a launching pad for covert operations, such as Z Special Unit’s raid on Japanese shipping in Singapore Harbour in 1943. It was an audacious mission, known as Operation Jaywick, that disrupted enemy supply lines, a thorn in the side of the Japanese navy.

In the years that followed the war, Exmouth grew slowly, as few could imagine life beyond the military. But one local woman, Isla Greene, saw something others did not.

Isla was a guide, part of a small group of locals who had taken to showing tourists the remains of the military base. “There’s a story behind every stone,” she would say, her voice strong but her face lined with the quiet patience of someone who had seen more than most.

One day, Isla stood on a windswept ridge overlooking the Gulf. A small group of tourists, cameras at the ready, huddled close as she told the tale of Potshot. “This place was once alive with the buzz of fighters,” she said. “Men who came here knowing they might not go home. And then,” she paused, “there was the mystery of the submarine.”

A man from the group raised his hand. “What mystery?”

Isla smiled. “Back in ’42, a submarine never came back. The USS Pelican was meant to refuel here. Never made it. No wreckage, no radio signal. Just vanished.”

The tourists exchanged puzzled looks. “What do you think happened?” one asked.

“Two theories,” Isla replied. “One says it was caught by a Japanese sub. Ambushed at night. Never stood a chance. The other—more local—is that it’s still out there. They say it’s stuck in the reef, hidden deep where no one has found it.”

“Has anyone looked?”

“Of course. Many have. But the ocean is a vast thing. It doesn’t give up its secrets so easily.”

Over time, Isla became the unofficial keeper of the town’s history. She knew every rusting remnant of Potshot, every story passed down by old sailors. But there was more to Isla than her tours.

In 2009, something happened that few in Exmouth had ever experienced—a modern brush with disaster. A Qantas flight, QF72, bound for Perth, had to make an emergency landing at the nearby Learmonth Airport. The cause was a failure in the plane’s ADIRU, which confused the angle of attack with altitude, making the aircraft believe it was in a steep pitch. In a panic, the plane forced a sharp nosedive, causing passengers to float weightlessly in the air. No lives were lost, but several were injured.

Isla had been among the passengers. That day changed something in her. She began spending more time alone, walking along the coastline, staring at the sea as though it held answers. When asked, she would only say, “You look at life differently when the earth falls away from under you.”

One evening, a year later, Isla sat at her usual spot near the shore. A young fisherman approached her. “Isla,” he said, “I think I’ve found something.”

She looked up. His face was pale, eyes wide with a mixture of excitement and fear. “Found what?” she asked.

“A wreck. Not far from the reef. It’s big. Could be a sub.”

Isla’s breath caught in her throat. “Are you sure?”

He nodded. “I haven’t told anyone yet. Thought you should know first.”

Isla stood slowly. “Take me there.”

The boat ride out to the reef was silent, the air thick with anticipation. As they neared the spot, Isla could see something dark beneath the water. The shape of a submarine—corroded and broken, but unmistakable.

“That’s it,” the fisherman whispered. “The Pelican.”

Isla gazed down at the wreck. Memories of her old tales, her conversations with tourists, flooded her mind. “So it was the reef,” she muttered. “All this time.”

The fisherman frowned. “Or it could’ve been something else. Maybe it wasn’t the reef. Maybe it was attacked, and the ocean just brought it here.”

Isla’s eyes narrowed. “Or maybe the sea just kept it hidden until now.”

The mystery seemed solved, but not entirely. Some would say it was a simple wreck. Others would claim something more sinister—a final ambush, perhaps, hidden under the guise of nature. But for Isla, standing there in the twilight, it was enough to know that one story had come full circle.

“Let’s leave it be,” she said softly. “It’s had its rest.”

As the boat turned back to shore, Isla watched the wreck disappear beneath the waves, where it had always belonged.

Eliza Dunn: A Pioneer of Warrnambool’s Wisdom

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The land of Warrnambool is ancient. The Merrigundidj people lived there for over 35,000 years. They built stone and timber weirs called yereroc across waterways. These weirs helped them trap eels. They knew the land, its rivers, its secrets.

At the mouth of the Hopkins River, there was a place called Moyjil. There, the Koroitgundidj people lived in a village near what is now Tower Hill. The area was rich in life, with kangaroos gathering to drink at a waterhole called Kunang. The hill known as Puurkar held significance, as did many other places in the region.

Then came the Europeans. The first to explore the land were mariners, men of the sea. In 1800, Lieutenant James Grant sailed the Lady Nelson along the coast. Two years later, Matthew Flinders came with his ship, the Investigator. French explorer Nicholas Baudin followed. They recorded the land, but it was the whalers who truly settled.

By 1838, Captain Alexander Campbell, a Scottish whaler, took possession of 4,000 acres near the Merri River. He built a farm there. The township of Warrnambool was planned soon after, in 1845, and the first land was sold two years later. The Post Office opened in 1849, marking the town’s growth.

Warrnambool grew fast. Whaling gave way to farming, and then came more settlers. Roads were made, and the town spread. But the people of the land—the Merrigundidj—were pushed away. Their weirs crumbled. Their village was gone. The town remembered them only in names: Kunang, Wirkneung, Peetoop. The past lived on, but faintly.

Among the settlers, one woman left a lasting mark. Her name was Eliza Dunn. She wasn’t rich. She wasn’t famous. But she was wise.

Eliza lived near the mouth of the river. Her family had come to farm. She helped in the fields, mended clothes, and kept the house. But what made her special wasn’t her work—it was her understanding.

One year, the rain didn’t stop. The river swelled, and people feared it would flood their homes. Some spoke of moving. But Eliza said, “Wait. The river will find its way.”

Her words seemed simple, but people listened. Eliza watched the river, walking its banks each day. She spoke to the elders, both settlers and the few Aboriginal people who remained. “It will break to the east,” she told them. “It has done so before.”

Her knowledge came not from books, but from listening—listening to the land and those who had lived with it. Sure enough, after days of rain, the river swelled eastward, sparing the town. People marveled at Eliza’s foresight.

One day, she stood by the river, speaking with a young woman from a nearby farm. “How did you know?” the young woman asked.

Eliza smiled. “The land speaks. It tells us what it needs. If we listen, we can live with it.”

Her wisdom spread. Farmers began to consult her on matters of the soil and seasons. When to plant, when to harvest. “What does the land say?” they would ask. And she would answer, always humbly, always with care.

But Eliza’s story was not just about land. She was also known for her kindness. One winter, a traveler came through, cold and hungry. He knocked on Eliza’s door, seeking shelter. She welcomed him in, fed him, and gave him a place to sleep.

“Why are you so kind to strangers?” a neighbor once asked her.

“We are all travelers,” Eliza replied. “Some of us just don’t know it.”

Her words carried weight. Simple truths, spoken softly. People remembered them long after she was gone.

Eliza passed away in her home by the river. She was not rich. She was not powerful. But her wisdom lingered. The town grew and changed, but those who knew her never forgot her words. Her story became part of Warrnambool’s history.

Years later, when the river swelled again, people remembered Eliza. They watched its course, knowing it would find its way, just as she had said.

And so, Warrnambool grew. It became a place of farming and trade. The land, once home to the Merrigundidj, changed hands many times. But the memory of the land’s first people, and the wisdom of settlers like Eliza Dunn, remained. The town carried their stories, woven into its fabric, just as the river wound its way through the hills and out to sea.

Eliza’s words lived on. “The land speaks,” she had said. “If we listen, we can live with it.”