HIDDEN NO MORE — FOLLOW-UP Frank and Jack Duval: the records behind the family story
By Brian AJ Newman Research updated: 16 September 2026
Returning to the Duval story
In my earlier article, I wrote about the family story handed down by my Nanna Rita: that we came from a long line of jockeys and horsemen.
I wrote about Milbona, Corumba and Lulu. I wrote about Mary Duval, also remembered as Granny Duval, and about the family line that continued through Margaret Bristow, Rita Alma Whitfield, my father and me.
I also wrote about Frank, Jack and Claude Duval — three horsemen whose names became connected with Australian and international racing.
This follow-up looks more closely at Frank.
New pages from a 1951 newspaper article give us something special: not only a photograph and a description of Frank, but his own views about horses, racing, training and the way the sport had changed.
The article was published in the Newcastle Morning Herald and Miners’ Advocate on 5 January 1951. It is available through Trove. The supplied photographs are images of that newspaper article.
This is still a family story, but it is also a research story. Some parts are strongly supported by public records. Some come from the family. Some are important claims that still need the original document.
My father told me we were Māori
My own father told me we were Māori.
For a time, that was the story I carried. Relatively early in my life, I left that story behind for the truth when his mother — my Nanna Rita — told me the truth about our people: we were Aboriginal. I was under 10 years of age when she first started telling me about Nundle and Hanging Rock and Anaiwan ancestors.
That was not a rejection of Māori people or Māori identity. It was the rejection of a family explanation that did not tell the truth about our own ancestry.
Nanna Rita gave me a way to understand the stories about horses, jockeys and the Duval name. She helped me see that Frank and Jack were not simply men from a history book. They were part of my family.
There is another part of this truth that must be spoken plainly.
The fear that consumed Aboriginal people forced many families to hide in order to survive.
Sometimes people hid their identity to protect their work, housing, children, relationships or physical safety. Sometimes a different public story was the only way to move through a society that treated Aboriginal identity as something to control or erase.
We outsmarted the system in plain sight.
Aboriginal people became some of the country’s favourite sportsmen, businesspeople and “great Australians”, even while the same society denied, minimised or hated the oldest continuing culture in the world.
A person could be admired for what they could do with a horse while the society around them refused to recognise who they were. The public could applaud the rider and still reject Aboriginal people.
Why did they fear our existence? I have always wondered. I still wonder.
The Duval family connection
The family material takes the line back to Milbona, remembered as a Wiradjuri woman, and Corumba, an Aboriginal man associated with Ngarigo Country. Their daughter Lulu also appears in later records as Mary Ann Coram Mah-Rah-Kah or Mary Ann.
The family line then continues through Mary Quinn, remembered as Mary Duval or Granny Duval, an Anaiwan woman who married James Duval at Walcha on 24 August 1862.
The family chronology identifies Mary as the sister of Claude, Frank and Jack Duval. Through her, the Duval name is not simply a name I found in a newspaper. It is part of my direct family line.
The line later continues through Margaret Bristow, Rita Alma Whitfield — my Nanna Rita — Brian Alfred Newman, me and my daughters.
The records are not perfect. Aboriginal people were often recorded under changing names, initials, English names, employers’ descriptions and spellings chosen by people who did not speak their language. That is one reason family knowledge matters. It can preserve relationships that the official record reduced to a name or an occupation.
The 1951 article: Frank in his own time
The newspaper article is headed by a drawing of a horse and rider and identifies Frank as a seventy-year-old Walcha trainer at Broadmeadow with Carew.
It says Carew had won at his last two starts. It also records Frank’s view that racing had changed.
When Frank was young, he said, racing was about sport, honour and fun. By 1951, he believed too much of the game had become about money.
That comment gives Frank a voice beyond the family story. He was not only being remembered by other people. He was looking back on the sport he had known for most of his life and judging what it had become.
A boy from Dangar’s Gully
The article says Frank was born at Dangar’s Gully, Hanging Rock, near Nundle, and was one of a family of eleven.
He lost both parents when he was three. The article describes him as a wild boy who missed more school than he attended.
Instead of going to school, Frank went into the bush with a bridle. He caught the first horse he saw, rode it bareback and kept looking for something to chase.
The article says he was happiest when he was holding on to the tail of a brumby. It records that he once caught four brumbies and drove them home.
That story tells us something about the kind of knowledge Frank possessed. He understood movement, balance, fear and timing. He knew how to stay with an animal that was stronger and faster than he was.
It also shows that his relationship with horses began before racing gave him a profession. The racecourse came later. The horse came first.
Forty years as a jockey
The 1951 profile says Frank became a jockey when he was ten and rode for forty years without a disqualification.
The pages supplied earlier from John Maynard’s history say Frank began racing at twelve and weighed about six stone, or 38.1 kilograms. The exact age is therefore not settled, but both accounts agree that he started as a child.
The newspaper says Frank rode on courses throughout New South Wales, Queensland and Victoria. It also says he rode in South Africa, India and the Malay States.
It records that he never fell in a flat race, although he had many harmless falls as a hurdle rider.
That is an extraordinary record for a rider who spent decades around horses and obstacles. It also reminds us that historical racing was physically demanding. A jockey’s career could involve falls, injuries, long travel, difficult tracks and horses whose behaviour could change in an instant.
Frank did not describe riding as a short period of his life. Horses remained with him after his race-riding days ended.
The horseman and Carew
By 1951, Frank’s weight and age had brought his riding career towards its end, but he still rode Carew in work because he wanted to “feel him”.
The article records Frank saying that his nerve was still as good as ever, even though the action was no longer there and he was becoming stiff.
That small detail says a great deal. Frank did not need to race to know a horse. He could feel the animal in ordinary work: its rhythm, strength, pace and response.
The article identifies Carew as the only horse Frank was then training. Carew had originally been bought as a stock horse by Mrs B. Carey of Walcha, but was put into work after people discovered that he had plenty of pace.
Carew was a five-year-old gelding by Adios, from a Bruce mare. The mare had not raced because she had been injured when a tree fell on her.
The article says Carew received his pace from Bruce, described as one of the best ponies to race at Australian Racing Club meetings in Sydney.
The Newcastle Morning Herald race report of 1 December 1950 records Frank Duval of Walcha winning the First Novice at Wyong with Carew the previous day.
The 1951 profile therefore gives us both the horse’s story and a contemporary race result.
Frank’s ideas about horses
The new article is valuable because Frank explains how he worked with horses.
He did not believe in racing two-year-olds too much. In his view, asking a very young horse to do a mature horse’s work was like asking a child to do a man’s work.
He also criticised heavy handicapping. He believed it was cruel to put a large weight on a good horse simply to bring that horse down to the level of a poorer one.
Frank had experience with difficult horses. His advice was practical: find out what a horse would eat and give it plenty of the food it could manage. He compared horses with people who cannot eat everything. Different bodies need different treatment.
The article records that Frank once won a seven-furlong sprint at Rocky Bank with a horse that would eat only lucerne hay.
His approach to young horses was also gradual:
Have the horse shod first so its natural step is not spoiled.
Ride it bareback with a halter.
Teach it to accept a bit.
Move it into a saddle.
Let it race barefoot on a soft track only when its feet are ready.
Frank did not think every piece of equipment improved a horse. He believed a good boot could be so light that it would not throw a horse off balance. He said Carew was speedy and raced in a back boot.
These are not just old racing opinions. They are evidence of Frank’s knowledge of animal development, feeding, balance, feet and conditioning.
More than a jockey
For many years, Frank combined race riding with breaking in horses.
The article says he could not remember ever being without a horse, even when he was working as a timber-cutting contractor.
Nanna Rita's brother, my Uncle Glenny was also a timber cutter around Nundle.
It says there was almost nothing he could not do with a horse. He carried out his own veterinary work, could make and shoe a horse, and at one time owned and trained his own string.
The article also says Frank never valued money highly.
That description matches the family understanding of him. Frank was not only a jockey whose name appeared beside a result. He was a breaker, rider, trainer, bushman, worker and teacher of practical horse knowledge.
That is what the word “horseman” should mean in this story.
The Quirindi High-Jump Record
One of the most remarkable stories attached to the Duval horsemen comes from Quirindi.
The family account recorded in John Maynard’s Aborigines and the “Sport of Kings” says that Frank Duval was riding a horse that cleared 7 feet 4 inches — almost 2.25 metres — at Quirindi, a height described at the time as an Australian high-jump record.
Whether the original Quirindi report can still be found or not, the story captures why Frank was remembered as more than a flat-race jockey.
He was a fearless cross-country rider, a skilled show-ring horseman and a man capable of taking a horse over jumps that would have stopped most riders. Quirindi carries an even deeper meaning for me because it is where family, horses, Country and memory meet.
My Nanna Rita, my father and Uncle Glenny are buried just beyond the finishing post, and I spent part of my own youth around Uncle Glenny’s horses there.
The record still awaits independent verification, but the story has endured because it speaks to the courage, skill and hidden Aboriginal achievement that official records so often failed to preserve.
Frank’s international career
John Maynard’s published history records that Frank travelled to India and Africa. It says he rode in India for four years and Africa for two. It also records a Penang Cup win on Silver Hampton and important races in South Africa.
A Tamworth Daily Observer report from 9 December 1911 records Silver Hampton finishing second, beaten by a head, in the Coronation Cup at Singapore. The horse was ridden by “J. Duval”, described as a champion horseman from Nundle.
That is a strong contemporary international record involving Silver Hampton and a Duval horseman. It does not prove whether that particular “J. Duval” was Frank or Jack.
A Sydney Mail report from 20 November 1912 lists Duval among Australian professional riders working in Malaya.
The international records show that the Duval name travelled a long way from New South Wales. They also show why the identity question is difficult. Newspapers used initials, and they often recorded the horse and the race without recording the rider’s cultural identity.
A separate Narandera report from 21 June 1901 names a Frank Duval associated with South Africa.
Jack Duval: the public racing trail
The new Frank article sits beside a growing public record for Jack, who appears as Jack Duval, John Duval or J. Duval.
1897 — recognised as a horseman
The Sportsman report of 6 April 1897 names Jack Duval, praises his horsemanship and refers to rides involving horses including Lill and Gilargombono.
1899 — injured at Randwick
The Evening News report of 13 January 1899 reports that J. Duval was seriously injured in a fall at Randwick while riding Whakawatea. He was badly bruised and had been taken to St Vincent’s Hospital.
1900 — an A.J.C. licence
The Australian Town and Country Journal report of 18 August 1900 includes John Duval in a list of A.J.C.-licensed jockeys.
This is a formal licensing record reproduced in a contemporary newspaper. It connects the full name John Duval with professional racing.
1913 and 1917 — Rosehill entries
The Referee report of 5 March 1913 lists Mr J. Duval’s Prince Lack in the Rosehill Granville Stakes entries.
The Referee report of 8 December 1917 lists Mr J. Duval’s The Tuck in a two-mile Rosehill hurdle-race entry.
These are entries, not race wins. They do show that J. Duval was connected with horses entered for Rosehill racing.
1918 to 1924 — training and Singapore
An early 1918 Daily Telegraph report refers to J. Duval training and racing The Tuck and to his earlier successful career as a jockey.
In 1920, the Tweed Daily reported that J. Duval left Sydney for Singapore with horses including Tapioca and Hughesiler.
In 1924, the Referee reported that J. Duval was visiting Sydney from Singapore and had Kerryland and Kenildor there.
Read together, these records show a Duval horseman moving between Australia and Singapore and working as both rider and trainer.
The Rosehill Guineas and Warrahta
The most important race claim in the family story is also the claim that needs the most careful wording.
The pages from Maynard’s book say that Frank’s most important win as a jockey was the Rosehill Guineas on Warrahta.
I have not yet found the original race card, newspaper result or steward’s record that confirms that win.
The Australian Turf Club’s official Rosehill Guineas winners list runs from 1910 through 2026. It records early winners including Electric Wire in 1910, Woolerina in 1911, Burri in 1912, Beau Soult in 1913, Wolaroi in 1916, Biplane in 1917, Wirraway in 1920, Caserta in 1922, All Sunshine in 1923, Amounis in 1925 and Cromwell in 1926.
Warrahta does not appear on that official historical list.
It means that the published account has not yet been matched with the official historical list. The problem could be a spelling difference, a different Rosehill race, an incomplete list or an error in a later retelling.
The responsible wording is:
John Maynard’s published history records the family account of Frank Duval winning the Rosehill Guineas on Warrahta. The Australian Turf Club’s historical winners list does not currently include Warrahta, so the result remains a documented claim awaiting primary verification.
That is not taking the achievement away. It is keeping the research honest while the search continues.
Guineas, not Guinness
The supplied page says Rosehill Guineas, not Rosehill Guinness.
The AIATSIS index separately lists “Guinness Book of Records” at pages 123 and 146. That reference is not part of the Duval entry, which is at pages 117–119.
For that reason, this follow-up uses “Rosehill Guineas”. If another family clipping says “Guinness”, it should be researched as a separate claim rather than combined with the Rosehill race.
The photographs
The new article supplies an important photograph of Frank Duval. It appears within the 1951 newspaper profile and is captioned “FRANK DUVAL”.
The photograph is not a photograph of the Rosehill Guineas finish. It is a portrait of Frank in later life, when he was training at Walcha and working with Carew.
The earlier supplied book page contains a portrait captioned Jack Duval. That image is valuable to the family story, but permission should be checked before republication because it is reproduced from a published book.
I have not found an authenticated public photograph of Frank crossing the Rosehill Guineas finish on Warrahta.
Trove also returns a 1916 photograph of Frank Duval Tilbrook, a South Australian serviceman.
He was a different person. The Trove record for Frank Duval Tilbrook must not be used as a photograph of the horseman.
The next places to search are the State Library of New South Wales, Australian Turf Club heritage holdings, Rosehill race-day photographs, the National Library of Australia, Penang and Singapore racing archives, and family albums.
Why did they fear our existence?
I cannot say that every individual had exactly the same motive. But the historical pattern is clear.
Our existence challenged the colonial story
The National Museum of Australia describes First Peoples as the oldest continuing culture in the world, with at least 65,000 years of continuing connection to Country, community and culture.
That truth challenged the colonial story that Australia was empty or that Aboriginal societies had no lasting law, authority or connection to land.
Aboriginal existence made dispossession impossible to explain away.
Our skill was wanted, but our equality was not
Aboriginal people were valued as stock workers, breakers, grooms, riders, trainers and jockeys. Their knowledge was essential to pastoral and racing industries.
But being useful did not mean being treated as equal.
Frank and Jack could be admired as horsemen while their Aboriginal identity was hidden.
The system wanted their skill, but often refused to recognise the people who held it.
Silence was made into a survival strategy
The Australian Human Rights Commission’s Bringing Them Home material documents the history and continuing effects of policies that separated Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander children from their families.
AIATSIS explains that the Stolen Generations caused loss of identity, family connection, culture and belonging, with consequences across generations.
In that environment, families could learn that survival required silence, another name or a safer public identity.
The story that my father was Māori, and the truth later told to me by Nanna Rita, belongs within that wider history. It does not mean Māori identity was the problem. It means Aboriginal identity had been made dangerous by the society around us.
Aboriginal success exposed the contradiction
The system expected Aboriginal people to disappear, be absorbed or remain at the bottom of the social order.
Instead, Aboriginal people became riders, trainers, owners, workers, businesspeople, artists, soldiers, organisers and public figures. They succeeded in the same institutions that denied the legitimacy of their people.
That is what I mean when I say we outsmarted the system in plain sight.
The fear was not only fear of Aboriginal people as individuals. It was fear of what our continuing existence exposed: that colonial power had taken land, controlled lives, exploited labour and tried to erase identities, but had never made Aboriginal people disappear.
What is confirmed and what remains open?
Strongly supported by public records
Frank and Jack are included in John Maynard’s published history of Aboriginal racing.
Jack, John or J. Duval appears in contemporary racing reports from the 1890s onwards.
John Duval appears in a contemporary list of A.J.C.-licensed jockeys from 1900.
A Duval horseman rode Silver Hampton in Singapore in 1911.
J. Duval appears in Rosehill race entries and later Singapore racing notices.
Frank Duval is identified as a Walcha trainer in a 1950 Wyong race report and a 1951 newspaper profile.
Frank’s training work is mentioned again in 1952 in connection with Miss Brilliantina.
Held in family knowledge and oral history
Nanna Rita told me that our people were Aboriginal and that she eherself came from Nundle and Hanging Rock area after being born in Curlewis (Gamileroi country).
The family remembers a long line of jockeys and horsemen.
Mary Duval or Granny Duval is part of my direct line.
Uncle Glenny Whitfield was a jockey and trainer and helped keep the family connection with Quirindi and horses alive.
Nanna Rita, my father and Uncle Glenny are laid to rest just beyond the finishing post at Quirindi racecourse.
Still open for further research
The original primary record of Frank’s reported Rosehill Guineas win on Warrahta.
An authenticated photograph of that Rosehill win.
Whether every historical “J. Duval” was Jack or Frank, I pressume it was John James "Jack" Duval though.
Claude Duval’s primary racing records.
Jack Duval’s confirmed date and place of death.
A direct public record of a Duval riding at Quirindi.
Keeping these questions open does not weaken the family story. It shows respect for the truth.
Hidden no more
The new Frank article brings him closer.
It gives us the face of an older man who had spent his life with horses. It gives us the voice of a rider who remembered when racing was about sport and believed the game had become too commercial. It gives us details about Carew, the horse he still rode in work, the young horses he educated, the difficult horses he learned to understand and the practical skills he carried from the bush into racing.
The records show that Frank was more than a name beside a race. He was a jockey, international rider, breaker, trainer, bushman, contractor, horse doctor, farrier and teacher.
Jack’s records show a related life: a recognised horseman, licensed jockey, rider connected with named horses, and a man whose work extended from Australian racing into Singapore and Malaya.
The Rosehill Guineas claim on Warrahta still needs its original race record. I will keep looking for it. But the absence of one document does not erase the people, the family knowledge or the many records that already exist.
My father told me we were Māori. Nanna Rita later told me the truth about our people. That truth gave me back a part of myself and a part of my family.
I am proud of the names that survived.
I am proud of Nanna Rita for telling me the truth. I am proud of my father, while also recognising the fear and confusion that shaped what he was able to tell me. I am proud of Uncle Glenny, of the horses, of Randwick, Rosehill and Quirindi, and of the family stories that carried what the official record left out.
My daughters do not inherit an obligation to become jockeys. They inherit the freedom to know where they come from.
Nan was little. Dad carried the six-foot genes. I carried them further. The saddle may have passed me by, but the horse did not.
The Duval legacy is not only about winning a race.
It is about refusing to disappear.
They were here.They rode.They trained.They endured.They achieved.
And I am proud to be their descendant.
Hidden no more.
Sources
Earlier BAJN article: “Born to Ride: The Duval Horsemen and an Aboriginal Triumph That Endured”
AIATSIS — John Maynard’s Aborigines and the “Sport of Kings”
Australian Town and Country Journal, 18 August 1900 — A.J.C. licensed jockeys
Tamworth Daily Observer, 9 December 1911 — Silver Hampton and J. Duval
Tweed Daily, 16 October 1920 — J. Duval leaves for Singapore
Referee, 26 November 1924 — J. Duval visiting from Singapore
Newcastle Morning Herald, 1 December 1950 — Frank Duval and Carew at Wyong
Newcastle Morning Herald, 5 January 1951 — Frank Duval profile
Newcastle Morning Herald, 31 March 1952 — Miss Brilliantina and Frank Duval
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