For many New Southlanders, the name Reginald Woods meant little, but back in 1790's Port Arthur, everybody knew his name.

His infamous last words "You havn't seen the last of me..." echoed throughout Arthur's mind long after the man was marched out of town. The missing coins were never found, and Old Reg never did return. But decades had now passed and his name had largely been forgotten. Rumours had spread in the early years following his banishment, but as time wore on, memories faded and the story of Old Reg became folklore. What had become of the man? Was he even still alive? And what of the silver?

There was one man who knew the truth. He went by the name of Blackhands Merrin - an ex-convict transported in 1798. From the moment he set foot in Port Arthur, Merrin had trouble finding his place. With a crooked grin and soot-stained hands, he was quick with a drink and quicker to fight, never quite able to outrun his past. But in the back alleys of La Perouse, he heard tales from exploring parties who had returned from the Western Highlands of a hidden camp, eight days trek from Port Arthur, where men lived freely, outside the rule of law, under the shadow of what they called Black Mountain. So on one cold autumn morning, with nothing left to lose, Merrin packed what little he owned and headed off into the wilderness.

And this is where the story of Old Reg begins...

As he was escorted from Port Arthur with two marines by his side, Old Reg took the winding road north towards Shepheard's Bay, before stepping off the dirt track heading into the thick forests of the Western Highlands. He left with little more than a pack of provisions, a battered pickaxe, and a flintlock pistol slung across his belt. His boots were worn through at the soles, his coat patched at the elbows, but his eyes burned with the fierce defiance of a man with nothing left to lose.

He wandered eastward through the Highlands for seven days, climbing ridgelines thick with undergrowth, descending into rain-slicked gullies where not even the early explorers dared to venture. He survived off wild roots, streamwater, and the occasional rabbit snared in crude traps, setting up camp each night - hidden amongst the towering pines, blanketed beneath the stars.

On the eighth day, his fortune changed. Whilst following a dried out creek bed through a narrow gorge, he noticed a vein of dark stone glistening in the rockface. He struck it with his pickaxe. The rock cracked and flaked into chunks. "I’ll be damned” he muttered, brushing soot from his fingers. He dropped his pack and began working immediately. He knew from experience - coal was as good as gold. Within days, he had carved out a small entrance into the seam, propped up by salvaged timber and stone. He fashioned a makeshift timber cottage near the mine's entrance and got to work clearing the surrounding area before fencing in his stake.

For the first few years he worked alone, digging deeper into the mountain, slowly expanding the mine. He fashioned a crude rail-cart to haul loads downhill and fenced a nearby paddock where he bred a small herd of deer to feed himself. Progress was slow, but Old Reg was in no particular hurry. The days were long and hard, but Old Reg thrived. Here, beyond the reach of Arthur’s laws, he was a free man once more.

As time passed, word spread of the place they called Black Mountain. Trappers and shepherds whispered tales of the madman in the Highlands who had struck coal. In 1794, two prospectors arrived from La Perouse. They stayed for a week, helping with the mine in exchange for coal samples, before returning with blackened hands and sacks full of coal. The legend of Black Mountain had begun.

By 1796, visitors became more frequent - outlaws, drifters, settlers hungry for work - men with little to lose and everything to gain. Some stayed a few days; others remained for years. Working the mines was tough, and some say Old Reg was even tougher, but for those that made the journey, the reward was certainly worth the effort - returning with pockets full of silver and tales even richer.

Two years later Merrin arrived. By then, the mine had expanded deep underground. Several permanent dwellings had been erected down in the valley and a rough dirt path cut its way through the brush trekking North towards the newly established town of Port Clarendon, where much of the coal was bound for.

Old Reg greeted him just as he had any other who had made the journey to the mines, but Merrin was different. The two bonded over an unlikely coincidence - one evening over a fire, Merrin shared his story - the failed family business in Aberdeen, the arrest, the sentence, the voyage. "You're not talking about the smithy on Silver Street are you?" questioned Old Reg. "You know it?" replied Merrin. Old Reg chuckled in disbelief - "well, I was the one that bought it off your father..." From that moment on, the pair were like brothers. As trust between the two grew stronger, Old Reg offered Merrin a partnership deal, splitting profits and responsibilities. Reg would manage the mines, whilst Merrin would handle distribution, accounts and contracts.

As demand for Black Mountain coal grew, so too did the camp down in the valley below. In 1801 a blacksmith set up a forge. Later that year a trader began bringing tools and salted meat. By 1803 a preacher had built a chapel, and a tavern - The Black Seam - opened its doors, offering boiled stew and hard ale to soot-faced miners. By 1805, the village of Woodston - short for Woods' Town - was starting to emerge on some New Southland maps.

Old Reg himself rarely left the mine. He walked the shafts daily, still swinging a pick now and then, still fixing carts when they broke. “I built this from nothing” he once told Merrin, “and I’ll see it through to the end”. And in 1812, that end came. Old Reg was found in his cabin, seated by the hearth, his coat pulled around him, a map of the mines on his desk. At his funeral, fifty miners stood silent as the preacher recited a simple passage. They buried him at the mouth of the mine, his grave marked not by stone, but with the very tool that had built the town: a pickaxe, driven deep into the earth.

And yet in the black dust of the mine, the spirit of Old Reg endured. Following his death, Merrin took over the business, building on Old Reg's legacy. By 1815, Woodston Coal was supplying much of New Southland with high quality coal, and had even expanded into international markets, exporting to New South Wales, India, the Dutch East Indies, and China.

Today, few remember his name. But for those who’d ever held a lump of Black Mountain coal in their hands, or warmed their home by its fire, he was there - in every ember, in every strike of the pick.

New Southland, as he had once promised, had certainly not seen the last of Old Reg.