Hitting a Brick Wall

Sarah Island, Macquarie Harbour, Watercolour by William Buelow Gould (1803–1853). I have chosen this image because it represents one of the gaps in my family history: the unknown offence that sent my ancestor Thomas Maslin to this remote penal settlement. Established as a site of secondary punishment, Sarah Island was reserved for convicts who had reoffended or escaped from other settlements. Remote, windswept, and brutal, it came to symbolise the extremes of the penal system in colonial Australia. In 1824, Thomas Maslin was sent to the similarly feared settlement at Port Macquarie. His three years there marked a period of intense hardship and loss. Source: State Library of New South Wales.

One of the truths of family history research is this: no matter how diligent we are, there will always be things we cannot know. Every family historian eventually comes up against questions that do not seem to have a ready answer. These can feel like brick walls. And they are not always temporary. Sometimes, they are final.

Take the case of my great-great-great-grandfather, Thomas Maslin (1792–1854), who was transported to New South Wales in 1818. He was later sentenced to three years at the notorious Port Macquarie penal settlement. I have the dates of his imprisonment and the name of the ship that carried him north, but the crime that led to his punishment remains unknown. No record has yet surfaced to explain what he did, and it is possible that none ever will. I suspect that his three years at Port Macquarie broke his spirit—and his health.

Another example is that of his son, Thomas Mazlin. He was born in the colony in the early 19th century, the illegitimate child of two convicts. There is no birth certificate or baptism record. His birth year can be inferred from later documents, but the exact date may never be known. It is another blank.

Each generation brings a new set of questions. John Mazlin, Thomas Mazlin’s son, served for a time in the Native Police. Records show his name and some dates of service (1878), but there is no account of why he joined or why he left. His motivations have not been passed down, and family stories have offered no insight so far. It is puzzling.

The reasons for these gaps in a family narrative are varied. Some are the result of family secrets—stories never told. Others come from the nature of historical records themselves. They can be patchy and inconsistent. The spelling of names can vary. Documents can be lost through fire, flood, or simple neglect. Some details can even disappear through deliberate concealment. The past is not always proud of itself.

As researchers, how do we respond?

We can close some gaps with further investigation. Others we learn to live with. We might write about them, acknowledge them, or pause and reflect on what the absence itself suggests. But at a certain point, we must let go of the idea that every mystery has a solution.

Family history is not just about recovery. It is not just about detailing the events of a person’s life. It is also about accepting them as a member of your ancestral family.

If you have encountered brick walls in your research, I would be interested to hear what they are and how you have dealt with them.