The Vanished Gold of Gippsland

Martin Weiberg, 1880

Every now and then during my wanderings through the historical weeds, I come across a story where I think, “What a movie this would make!”  The following tale of devious thefts, daring escapes, and hidden treasure is a prime example.

In 1877, the Australian ship “Avoca” had among its cargo 5,000 gold sovereigns.  The ship’s carpenter, a Norwegian named Martin Weiberg, learned of the enticing proximity of this small fortune, and began to dream a dream.  His plan was ridiculously simple:  he had a duplicate key made for the chest where the gold was kept, and when nobody was watching, he opened the box and replaced the loot with metal bolts.  He then resealed the chest so expertly that it appeared untouched.  

Of course, once the chest arrived at its destination in Ceylon, it became instantly obvious that someone had been up to no good.  The police, naturally, centered their investigations around the crew of the “Avoca,” but were unable to find anything that would lead them to the culprit.  Weiberg continued quietly performing his duties aboard the ship as if he was as innocent as a babe in the cradle.  Fortunately for him, it was right at this time that the legendary Aussie bad guy Ned Kelly shot dead three policemen.  The hunt for the desperado naturally distracted authorities from the relatively minor crime of missing gold.  Five months after the theft, Weiberg--who had by now married--left his ship to settle on the Tarwin River, South Gippsland, for what he hoped would be a long and gold-filled future.

Weiberg must have been a bit too careless about how he spent his ill-gotten wealth, because some unknown person evidently suggested to the police that they pay the Norwegian a visit.  When detectives headed for Weiberg’s home, they bumped into their quarry on a nearby road.  When he was searched, a number of gold sovereigns were found in his pockets, thus causing Weiberg one of life’s embarrassing moments.  After throwing the carpenter in jail, officers conducted a search of his home.  They eventually found over 1300 coins, all cleverly hidden in various places.

While Weiberg was in custody, he was interrogated about his accomplices.  It was assumed that one man could not have carried off such a large stash of gold.  He eventually named the first officer of the “Avoca” as his confederate, but an investigation managed to clear the man.  Weiberg then volunteered to show police where he had buried a container full of gold, but while leading them to the alleged spot, he managed to escape.  Weiberg hid out in the bush for five months, after which he acquired an accomplice to help him move enough gold to Melbourne to buy a boat, which he hoped to use to flee Australia for good.  However, before this plan could come to fruition, he was recaptured in May 1879, and sentenced to five years hard labor.  Meanwhile, the police had no success in finding the remaining sovereigns.  Only one man knew where the gold was hidden, and he wasn’t talking.

After Weiberg was released from prison, he and his brother bought a yacht, which he moored in Gippsland’s Waratah Bay.  While there, he went ashore in a skiff to visit his family, who lived in the area.  More importantly, it was assumed that he went to get his hands on some of his hidden gold.  While returning to his yacht, Weiberg was caught in a sudden squall which capsized his little boat.  

Although it was presumed that Weiberg had drowned, his body was never recovered, which led to some highly entertaining speculation about what might have really happened to our elusive carpenter.  Did he fake his own death in order to get the authorities off his back once and for all?  Mysterious lights were seen on the normally uninhabited Glennie Group islands, causing locals to speculate that Weiberg was hiding out there.  Some reports claimed that he had been spotted in various European cities.  Or was he the proprietor of a hotel in Sweden?  Did he, against all odds, manage to get away with a fortune in gold?

Sometime around 1890, a skeleton was found at Waratah Bay, with part of the skull missing.  Was this the missing Weiberg?  Did he let the world think he had drowned, only to be murdered by some accomplice?  Nobody knows.

Twenty years after this unidentified skeleton turned up, a stash of 75 gold coins was found in an old tree.  All in all, despite the diligent efforts of treasure-hunters, to date, only about 1800 of the stolen sovereigns have been recovered.  Most people believe the rest are still concealed somewhere in the Gippsland area, just waiting to be uncovered by some lucky person with a metal detector.

Or--if you want to take the more romantic view--did Martin Weiberg’s crime pay big for him, in the end?

The Buried Treasure of Baltimore

"Baltimore Sun," September 1, 1934, via Newspapers.com

Two impoverished boys accidentally finding buried treasure sounds like something from “The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn” or a Robert Louis Stevenson tale, but, surprisingly enough, it was a real-life saga that played out in Depression-era Baltimore, Maryland.

On August 31, 1934, 14-year-old Theodore Jones and his friend, 15-year-old Henry Grob, went to the basement of a three-story house on 132 South Eden Street.  The two young entrepreneurs planned to turn the basement into the headquarters of a boys’ club which they planned to call the "Rinky-Dinky-Doos," with an admission price of 5 cents.

In a corner of the basement, the boys began excavating a hole in which to conceal any dues they might collect.  By the time the hole was about a foot deep, they spotted something shiny.  When the boys pulled it out, they were stunned to find they had uncovered a $20 gold piece. (The equivalent of nearly $500 in 2025 currency.)

Sensibly enough, the boys kept digging, and were soon rewarded with the discovery of an old copper pot containing thousands of gold coins of various denominations.  They split the loot as equitably as they could, and headed back to their homes to figure out what to do with their sudden wealth.

The boys assumed they could simply bring the coins to the bank and cash them in, but Henry’s brother-in-law advised them to forget the idea.  He pointed out that unfortunately for them, they had found their buried treasure over a year too late:  The U.S. had come off the gold standard, which required that all gold currency be turned over to the government by May 1, 1933.  Anyone possessing more than $100 in gold coins after that date could face a whopping fine and a lengthy stay in the local prison.  However, there was a legal exception for any gold coins which had “a recognized special value to collectors.”  As their coins were obviously quite old, they could clearly fit that category.  The brother-in-law advised the boys to bring their hoard to the police, and let the law decide what they should do.

The boys obediently walked to the nearest police station and gave the sergeant at the front desk the interesting information that they wanted to give him over $7,000 in gold coins.  The lads came back a short time later with $3542 more.  The nonplussed officer, not knowing what else to do, scooped up the loot and placed it in a safe.

Naturally, the press soon got wind of this seeming rags-to-riches story and swooped down on the boys--both of them from poor working-class families--to get details.  The boys both said they would turn over their wealth to their parents--after Theodore had bought himself a new suit and a washing machine for his mother.

Unfortunately, it soon appeared that taking possession of this fortune would not be as easy as they had thought.  Unpleasant legal questions soon emerged about who, exactly, was the rightful owner of the gold.  After all, somebody had originally buried the coins.  The problem was, nobody knew who that somebody was.  The house where the gold was concealed was quite old, with many different residents over its long history.  Or could the coins have been hidden by someone who never even lived in the house?  Naturally, the publicity about the amazing find brought out a shipload of people eagerly asserting that they were the ones who had hidden the coins.  (Presumably, they had secretly buried many thousands of dollars worth in gold and just forgot about it.  Little things like that tend to slip the mind.)

Inevitably, it was decreed that the whole mess needed to go to a court of law to decide ownership.  Inevitably, that meant the boys needed to hire a good lawyer.  Inevitably, that was going to cost them.  They enlisted the services of an attorney named Henry Levin, who would receive one-third of any money the court might award them.

After a brief period spent in winnowing out the obvious frauds, the judge allowed three other parties to present their claims.  The first group consisted of two aged sisters, Elizabeth French and Mary Findlay, who owned the land the house had been built on--although not the house itself.  The home was owned by one Benjamin Kalis, who paid the sisters a monthly lease for the land.  (Kalis was not eligible to join the lawsuit, as he had only recently purchased the house after its previous owner died.)

Then there was the family of a man named Isaac Chenvin, who had lived in an apartment in the house.  (Chenvin himself died just days before the gold had been discovered.)  Chenvin had been a successful jeweler before he lost both his fortune and his mind in 1915, after which he spent the rest of his life in a sanitarium.  Despite his bankruptcy, there were persistent rumors that he had managed to hide part of his money somewhere--in the form of gold coins, perhaps?

Rounding out our merry band of claimants were relatives of a long-dead man named Andrew Saulsbury.  Saulsbury was an extremely rich man who had owned the South Eden home from 1865 until his death in 1873.  He had the very pleasant habit of handing out gold coins as little gifts, leading his hopeful descendants to assert that he must have been the one who buried the stash.

The judge in the case quickly dropped the Chenvins from the competition.  The gold coins were very old--the newest of them dated from before the Civil War--and Issac Chenvin did not emigrate to the U.S. from Russia until 1908.  Besides, there was nothing to indicate he ever had a large quantity of gold coins.

Next to go were the Saulsbury descendants.  While the late Andrew had both the means and the opportunity to bury gold coins in his basement, his family could not provide the slightest smidgen of proof that he had actually done so.  That left the two elderly sisters and the two young boys.  After studying previous court rulings and scratching his head over the matter, the judge finally relied on the august legal principle known as “finders keepers.”  Theodore Jones and Henry Grob, the court ruled, were the rightful possessors of $11,427 in gold coins.  And the old copper pot which had held them.  The sisters and the Saulsbury descendants immediately appealed the verdict, but in the meantime, it was agreed that the gold could be sold at auction.

On May 2, 1935, the gold coins were sold for $20,000.  (The equivalent of very nearly $500,000 today.)  Exactly two months later, the Maryland Court of Appeals issued a split decision in the case, meaning that the judge’s original ruling still stood.  However, the boys and their families would have to wait for their wealth, as the judge had decreed that Henry and Theodore wouldn’t get a nickel until they turned twenty-one.

Despite this depressing setback, neighbors of the boys couldn’t help noticing that both families started showing signs of mysterious prosperity.  New cars.  Nice furniture.  Stylish clothes.  Chats with real estate agents about moving to more upscale neighborhoods.  It was a puzzle.

The mystery was solved on the evening of September 2, 1935, when Theodore’s family returned home to find that they had been burglarized.  When Theodore’s stepfather, Philip Rummel, reported the robbery to police, he said that the thieves had taken $3100 in cash and $500 in gold coins.  As Rummel had spent his life in poverty, the police showed a natural interest in how he had acquired the money.  After a bit of questioning, it finally came out that the boys had never turned over all the coins they had found.  Evidently not trusting the authorities to come through for them, they had kept back a secret stash of about $10,000 worth of gold.

This little surprise sent the whole matter back to the courtroom.  The two sisters wanted a new trial, on the grounds that the boys had lied in their original testimony.  Henry and Theodore’s lawyer, Henry Levin, was also displeased, as this meant he had been cheated out of his rightful one-third share of the gold.  Who was the rightful owner of this second treasure?  

On October 2, 1935, the judge ruled that he found no reason to overturn his previous decision.  The sisters again appealed, with the Appellate Court siding with the judge.

Undaunted, the two ladies filed a fresh lawsuit claiming ownership of this second stash of gold.  In December 1937, the judge in that case sided with the boys.  After over three years of battling, the Baltimore buried treasure was finally legally theirs.

Tragically, Henry Grob never lived to see this ruling.  Earlier that year, he died of pneumonia.  His share of the fortune went to his mother, Ruth.  After court fees, Henry Levin’s cut, and inheritance taxes, she received a total of $3601.

Theodore Jones received $5000 in May 1939.  In a final surprise twist to our story, he was only nineteen when he received his fortune. For years, he had added two years to his real age, which fooled the court into thinking he was twenty-one.  After his youthful adventure, Theodore spent a quiet life as a shipyard machinist until his death in 1977.

As for the vexed question of who originally owned the gold--and why they buried it in a basement--that will never be known for sure until the Last Trumpet, when all will be revealed.  However, some historians have an intriguing theory that the gold belonged to the Knights of the Golden Circle.

The KGC was a shadowy, quasi-military organization of former Confederates, who amassed an enormous amount of money with the hope of establishing a “golden circle” of slave-owning countries in the American South, Mexico, Central America, and the Caribbean.  Legend has it that the KGC hid much of their loot in various places throughout America and Canada.  The Baltimore house where Henry and Theodore found the gold was once owned by Captain John J. Mattison, a slave-trader and probable KGC member.  Andrew Saulsbury--who bought the house from his friend Mattison--was also linked to the KGC.  It is entirely possible that strictly speaking, the gold did not belong to either of these men, but to the Knights.

Henry Grob and Theodore Jones may have uncovered not just enormous wealth, but a sinister bit of American history.

The Woes of Honore Mirabel; Or, Why Some Treasures Should Remain Buried

"New York Times," June 28, 1874 via Newspapers.com

So, you’re just a poor working stiff, barely getting by in this world.  Then one night, a ghost tells you the location of some buried treasure.  You do a little digging, and by golly, there’s the loot.  All your troubles are over, right?

Not necessarily, chum.

Honore Mirabel was a young laborer living near Marseilles, France.  One night in May of 1726, he was lying under an almond tree when he noticed a man at an upper window of a nearby building belonging to a Madame Placasse.  Mirabel asked the man what he was up to, but he got no response.  When he entered the building, he found no one there.  The unnerved boy went to a well for some water.  As he drank, he heard a faint voice telling him to dig there for some valuables, and asking that masses might be said for his (the voice’s) soul.  Then, from out of nowhere, Mirabel saw a stone fall on a certain spot.

Recognizing this as a sign of where to dig, Mirabel enlisted the help of another laborer named Bernard, and the two began excavating.  They soon uncovered a packet of dirty linen, containing more than a thousand Portuguese gold coins.  Mirabel was so thrilled by his windfall that he not only paid for the masses for his ghostly benefactor, he had himself bled four times, just to calm his nerves.

And then it occurred to Mirabel that he didn’t know what to do with the coins.  He consulted a merchant named Auguier, who advised him to do nothing with the loot, as putting them into circulation would inevitably lead to some awkward questions.  Auguier persuaded Mirabel to give him the coins for safe keeping, in exchange for a loan of less suspicious cash.  On September 27, Auguier gave him a formal signed receipt.

Then things got complicated.  When Mirabel later asked for his coins back, the merchant flatly refused.  When Mirabel tried pressing him on the issue, Auguier--according to the laborer--tried to murder him.  Mirabel then filed a lawsuit against him demanding the return of his property.

During the trial, Auguier acknowledged that Mirabel had told him of finding buried treasure, but insisted that he himself had never so much as seen the money, even though a ribbon was found in his house identical to the one Mirabel had used to tie up his bag of coins.  A woman named Marguerite Caillot testified that Mirabel had told her about his ghost.  She witnessed the hoard being uncovered, and identified the ribbon from Auguier’s home as the one used for the coins.  Another witness described seeing Mirabel give bags to Auguier, and getting a slip of paper in return.  A third stated that Mirabel had shown her his treasure.  As for the defense, Auguier brought in expert witnesses who stated that although the handwriting on the receipt was similar to the merchant’s, it was a forgery.  The ribbon found in Auguier’s home, it was claimed, was merely part of a dress belonging to his daughter.  After hearing all this, the obviously bewildered judge could think of no better solution than ordering that Auguier should be put to the torture.

Naturally, the merchant’s lawyer appealed this disagreeable decision, on the grounds that Mirabel’s whole story was nuts.  He argued that if there was no ghost--and what sane person believes in ghosts?--there was no treasure.  And if Mirabel found the coins on his own initiative, why didn’t the other digger, Bernard, claim his share of the loot?  Auguier also now claimed that he was in Pertuis, eight leagues away from Marseilles, on the day he allegedly received Mirabel’s treasure.

Mirabel’s lawyer countered by arguing that ghosts did indeed exist.  He cited as evidence the fact that the Bible, the Faculty of Theology in Paris, the Sorbonne, and the Parliament of Paris had all, in various ways, affirmed the reality of the spirit world.  In any case, whether you believe in ghosts or not, Mirabel unquestionably had a hoard of gold coins, which he had unwisely entrusted to the merchant.  Auguier, they claimed, had altered his handwriting when he wrote out the receipt, in order to trick Mirabel.  And Auguier’s alibi was worthless: he could easily have traveled the distance between Pertuis and Marseilles in less than a day.

Although one might think he’d be the first person to be interviewed, it was only at this point that Bernard was called to the stand.  He stated that Mirabel had told him about the ghost, he helped his friend dig, and they found some linen, but he insisted he had never seen any coins.  He added that Mirabel had given him money to pay for masses for the ghost, and later showed him a document which he thought resembled the receipt Auguier had allegedly signed.  More handwriting witnesses came forward, testifying that the receipt was not in the merchant’s hand.

A legal summons was submitted, in which Madame Placasse (who owned the land where the coins were allegedly found) insisted that the treasure rightfully belonged to her.  According to Mirabel, the document was a forgery, handed to him one day by an unknown man.

Marguerite Caillot now repudiated her earlier testimony, saying she had lied about hearing of the ghost and seeing the discovery of the packet in order to do Mirabel a favor.  She and Mirabel were arrested and joined Auguier in prison.  A man named Etienne Barthelemy was also arrested, on the charge that he had attempted to suborn witnesses to deliver testimony in Mirabel’s favor.

This fine legal mess was finally resolved on February 18, 1729.  The court acquitted Auguier, fined Marguerite Caillot ten francs, and sentenced Mirabel to be tortured and sent to the galley for life.  While under torture, Mirabel accused Etienne Barthelemy of instigating his charges against Auguier.  He claimed that Etienne had forged the receipt and the document where Madame Placasse demanded the return of her gold.  However, Mirabel doggedly insisted that he had indeed given Auguier sacks of coins, one of which had been tied with the ribbon found in the merchant’s home.  Barthelemy was also given a life sentence in the galleys.

The moral here is obvious: if, on some moonlit night, a ghost wants to guide you to a hidden fortune, tell it to get lost.