No 54 Coromandel Valley

Impecunious Governments are apt to resort to strange measures to raise the needful. In the early days of the State all Governments were impecunious. It was a chronic disease. You see, if they started taxing the people beyond the point of endurance the people were liable to kick— and they could kick pretty hard those times. Nowadays we have got so used to being taxed to the last button on our oldest shirt that if a Treasurer forgets to announce a 25 per cent. increase on last year's imposts we should probably give him the sack. We seem simply to revel in paying taxes. As for kicking— well, we haven't forgotten the art, for we of today never know it. These reflections, I know, are bitter. But then, you see, I have just been down to the Cash Extractor on North terrace to hand him a perfectly good wad of Commonwealth bank notes in return for the rather doubtful privilege of being a South Australian citizen.

All this prelude is not quite as extraneous as it seems. It leads us back to the point where we concluded last week, when we left her Majesty's Ministers with some 2,000 acres of Government Farm on their hands that they didn't know what to do with. Sir George Gray's advisers were the first to raise the question whether they couldn't pawn the Government Farm in exchange for some urgently needed currency of the realm, and, as I told you last week, it was then they discovered that they had no clear title to the property. That was in 1840. When we get to Echunga in a week or two I will give you a couple of stories illustrating how hopelessly hard up the Government of that day really were,and what strange proposals they made for getting some solid cash into the Government coffers.

But they got over that crisis, just as they got over others later, and just as we are getting over the present one now. The next spasm of financial pernicious anaemia was in 1882. By this time, of course, the Government had gained control of all the Crown lands in the colony, and their title to the Government Farm was as clear of blemishes as the converted soul of a Magdellan. But the Government wanted cash— and wanted it badly. Most of us are habitually in that position. But we have to hitch our financial belt a notch or two tighter, and go without the things we feel we ought to have. But Governments don't do it that way. They just go on spending money — and trusting to Providence that supplies will be replenished somehow. Well, the Government of 1882 was hard up, desperately so. Some brilliant cranium conceived the idea of seizing the Government Farm, cutting it up into town allotments, and selling it at so much a foot, irrespective of the fact that there were already the towns of Belair, and Blackwood, and Coromandel Valley, and Upper Sturt, and one or two others, so close to it that they could throw stones into it from their backyards if they wanted to.

Showing a pound or so to a Government Minister is like showing a bone to a dog— he'll get it somehow. So when this scheme was put before the C.C.L. he jumped at it like a hungry whale after Jonah. Preparations were made to subdivide the Farm— and they would have been carried out if certain far-seeing citizens hadn't waited on that Minister and talked to him in double-Dutch. It was at that historic deputation that the C.C.L. was told that the Government Farm must not be sold; that it should be reserved to the people for all time as a public recreation ground. That is how the National Park came into existence. Soon after that deputation— there must have been a general election somewhere in the offing— a Bill was put through Parliament changing the name from the Government Farm to the National Park, and vesting the ground in a board. It has remained a national pleasure resort ever since. There are not a great many people who know that at one time the summer vice-regal residence was situated on the Government Farm. The building is still there, and a photograph is reproduced in the supplement. It was erected for Governor Robe in 1859 at a cost of £1,600, and was subsequently used by Governors MacDonnell, Daly, and Jervois. It remained a vice-regal residence until it was superseded by Marble Hill.

Story Of The Coromandel

Stand on the Adelaide road, at the far end of the town of Blackwood, on a fine day, and look into the valley below. I'll warrant you'll find no better picture of rustic scenery in South Australia. You will be looking into the famous valley of the Coromandel. Here is its story. The valley is named after the ship Coromandel, 662 tons, Captain William Chesser (Chesser street, City, is called after him), which arrived off Holdfast Bay on January 12, 1837— a fortnight after the proclamation of the province. Now, just as twenty years later no ship could keep its crew because of the prospects for wealth offered by the Australian gold diggings, so in 1837 ships coming to South Australia could only keep themselves manned by taking the most strict precautions to prevent desertion.

At the time the Coromandel arrived there was no Adelaide. The seat of government was at Holdfast Bay. The country between the sandhills and the site of the city was covered with a wonderful forest (Black Forest and Forestville perpetuate this circumstance). The whole country, in a state of Nature, presented an alluring prospect. When the sailors of ships arriving saw it they wanted to stay here, and sometimes they resorted to all kinds of ruses to effect their purpose. The salts on the Coromandel were bitten by this bug. They wanted to stay. On the other hand Captain Chesser wanted them to take the ship back to England — and he couldn't do without them. The men were bound to the ship under contract, but that didn't worry them. Ten of them deserted. Now, the deserters knew very well that warrants would be issued for their arrest. So they struck out for the bush in the direction of the southern hills, and kept on until they came to this strikingly beautiful spot in the (then) remote wilds of the mountains. Here they felt safe. They decided to settle there, and to call the valley after the ship they had abandoned. That is how Coromandel Valley came into existence.

Police Too Busy For Police Work

The deserters were right in supposing warrants would be issued for their arrest. Captain Chesser was put in an awkward corner by their behaviour. He was under contract to be at the Cape of Good Hope by April 1. And here he was with a ship which could not be safely worked with a crew of less than thirty, and only thirteen men left to carry on. His dilemma was the more annoying because he need not have come on to Glenelg at all. His cargo was consigned to Nepean Bay, K.I., and he had called there before coming on to 'the Main.' There he lost two men, who decamped. There, also, he learnt that the main settlement had been removed to the mainland. So, as a matter of convenience to the settlers to whom his cargo was consigned, as well as for the benefit of the passengers he had on board, he decided to continue to Glenelg. His reward was the loss of the best part of his crew.

In his extremity he applied to the Colonial Secretary (Robert Gouger) for assistance in getting his sailors back. There were no police as we understand the term. There was a 'High Constable'' (William Williams) at Glenelg. And there were marines stationed among the tents which comprised the settlement when the State was two weeks old. And there were 'petty constables' who, I presume, 'were unpaid civilians who did police work as a hobby in their spare time. But there were no means of hunting runaway sailors through the illimitable bush.

I have just been reading the faded old epistle penned nearly a hundred years ago. It is dated 14th February 1837. After relating the story I have just given you, Captain Chesser complains:— 'I am thus left with only fifteen men to work a ship which requires at the last 30 men to insure her safety. I have applied to the magistrates of the colony, and warrants have been issued to apprehend the deserters, but the constabulary force of the colony has proved utterly inefficient. Mr. Williams, the Chief Constable, has stated to me that the petty constables are engaged in their own business, and cannot be depended upon, and he has offered, if sufficient force is given to him, to take the men … I have therefore respectfully to request that five marines and a corporal be put at the disposal of the Chief Constable for the purpose of capturing the deserters, and that the magistrates be requested to take some steps for raising the hue and cry in order to enable the search after the men to (be) more extended. There is the more reason for this as I have reason to believe the deserters are armed, and have committed depredations which will make their existence in the colony as dangerous to its peace as their absence from the ship is of serious import to myself.'

Governor Wrote Like Spider Scrawled across the back of this missive, in the rough, sailor hand of Governor 'Jack' Hindmarsh, which looks as if a perambulating spider had crawled out of an inkpot, and staggered drunkenly across the page, is his Excellency's comment:— 'Captain Chesser deserves well to have his case attended to. As to his deserters, he suspected that they were employed at Port Adelaide, but if they are in the bush they must be taken.Let a reward be offered for the apprehension — £5 a head, and £50 reward for the incendiary (ringleader). In the meantime let everything be done quietly, to ascertain their beat. I shall not be able to give my personal assistance till Monday.— J.H.'

But the men were not taken, not until they had surrendered themselves voluntarily after the ship had sailed. From the safe vantage point of a high hill near Blackwood they watched the Coromandel beating down the gulf. When the ship was well away they surrendered to the authorities, or nine of them did, for I can only find nine names in the records. - These are: — James Barrett, James Marshall, John Parsons, John Williams, Richard Jones, James Powell, Robert Cranson, Edward Read, and John Conend. They were brought before the magistrate at Glenelg, and twice remanded. Finally all were discharged because there was nobody to prosecute. Captain Chesser had taken his ship to sea the best way he could.

Bad Boys

What I have just told you shows that these sailors were bad boys. But the Empire has been built by bad boys— those in whose blood coursed the restless spirit of adventure. Before I finish the story of the Coromandel let me give you another little episode in which the crew of the ship figured.

Osmond Gilles, the first Colonial Treasurer, was a gentleman who 'did' himself well, even though, at one period of his Treasurership, there was only 1/6 in the public coffers. Among the cargo which the Coromandel brought to Adelaide were 22 casks of 'port and sherry wine in bottles, belonging to the said O. Gilles Esquire.' Gilles's agent (Frederick Allen) went down to the ship to take possession of this precious cargo. Those days, of course, there were no wharves and no jetties. The wine had been brought ashore in the ship's long boat, and beached somewhere round the entrance to the Patawillunga. But the eighteen thirties were days of leisure. Nobody hurried. It was undignified— and unpleasant.

So the sailors of the Coromandel waited in the hot sun for Mr. Allen to put in a more or less timely appearance. As things turned out, it was less timely. The sailors grew tired of waiting. Worse than that, they developed an abnormal thirst. Now, I ask you, what could be more exasperating to half a dozen burly British tars than to have a million horsepower craving for something wet to put down their throats, and no means of gratifying it, except the sacrosanct liquor of a Minister of the Crown on which they were sitting. I cannot give you the details of how they fought temptation — and lost the battle. All I know is that when Mr. Allen arrived to acquire the inebriating liquid he found four or five sailors well beyond the stage of hilarity. In answer to his indignant questions they could only regard him with a drunken leer. There was no need to raise the old, old question— when is a man drunk? Those sailors were drunk— and that was all there was about it.There were bottles everywhere— and they were empty. Some were floating in the sea, and some were floating in the boat, and the spirits of the sailors were floating on the waters of heavenly bliss. I do not know the sequel.

I know that the said O. Gilles Esquire lodged a complaint with the authorities, which indicates that he was justly annoyed. But at this interesting stage the records cease, with Mr. Allen's complaint recorded in the official verbiage of the day:— 'I then charged Pearce, who was in the boat, with having taken the wine, but so intoxicated was the said Pearce that he could not answer this deponent.

Building The Hills Railway

The hills are so quiet and respectable today that I hate to remind you they were not always so. The most hectic period of their history, I suppose, was when the construction of the hills railway was begun in the early eighties. Time passes. We of 1933, and especially the generation which has developed since the war, find it difficult to realise that less than fifty years ago there was no express to Melbourne. If you wanted to travel between the capitals there was nothing for it but a long and tiresome journey by stage coach. When I get to Murray Bridge soon I will give you the story of the interstate railway. But this, I think, is the place to tell you something about the construction of the first section of the hills line— for that was the beginning of Blackwood.

Blackwood In 1879-80

Up till then the town consisted of a 'pub' and a few huts. And such a 'pub'— a small wooden shanty which Robert Burford (or Burfield, for the records spell the name both ways) built as a residence for himself. After living there for some years it occurred to him that there was money in beer. So he built a small stone addition, and called it the Blackwood Inn. The wooden portion of the old house has long gone the way of earthly things, but the small stone portion of three or four rooms, including the old cellar which must have seen some strange sights in its day, is practically intact. It may still be seen as part of the Belair Hotel, of which it is now used as the dining room. If you are at all interested the present proprietor will show it to you.

When the railway scheme eventuated there were lines to be built, tunnels to be bored, and viaducts to be erected. And hundreds of navvies would be required to do this. Hundreds of navvies meant hundreds of thirsty throats, reasoned mine host, and hundreds of thirsty throats meant more accommodation than the tiny Blackwood Inn could provide. So down came the unpretentious wooden structure, and the existing Belair Hotel was the answer to the challenge thrown out by the thing we call Progress.

Doing In Their Cash

When the navvies came along to 'do in' their hard earned cash the place was ready for them. That is the secret of success in dealing with this class of trade. If you wait till the navvies come before you begin to build, well, by the time you are ready for them, they are miles away. For railway construction is a progressive job. But if you are ready for them when they come there is a fortune waiting for you. I ought to charge you a hundred guineas for that tip— and I would if I thought I could collect.

By the way, this Robert Burford came to a sad end. One day, when he was getting water for the house at the creek in the gully nearby, he fell in and was drowned. It was Robert Burford who named Blackwood. You are right in supposing that the timber of blackwood trees which crested the hills half a century ago suggested the designation. Prior to 1880 Blackwood was portion of Belair. I was told that the section on which the town stands was originally held by a man named Johnson. But the people who subdivided the estate at different periods were Richard Searle, G. P. Doolette (whom many will remember as a shopkeeper in King William street) and the Hon. John Carr.

Eight Tunnels Built

I started to write about railways, and I got on to 'pubs' instead. I hope you will not take that as indicative of any particular bias on my part. When you write of navvies you naturally write of 'pubs.' They are inseparable— unless the navvies are Scotch. They simply poured into Blackwood in 1880. Their camp was the scene of many wild escapades. But so is every other camp. This one was located slightly west of the present Blackwood station. I hate statistics. So, I guess, do you.Therefore, I will spare you the mass of mathematical conglomeration which makes this portion of my notes a thing of horror.

What I do want to tell you is that the hills railway would not have been started as early as it was but for one of those economic crises which hit the State hard on the solar plexus at periodic intervals in history, delivering a financial knockout which leaves us groggy and stunned for years. The line, authorised in November, 1878, was begun in May, 1879. That is pretty slick for a Government job. But, you see, the unemployed were howling for work, and as it was easier to raise a loan those times than it is now, when investors have a nasty habit of asking when it will be paid back, there were no real obstacles to taking off your coat, and getting into the job. If was laid down that the gauge was to be 5 ft. 3 in. The grade was to be not steeper than 1 in 30. We so often hear that the first section of the line was to Nairne, that it will be news to many to learn that the first section was to Mount Lofty. For this portion Walker & Swan were the contractors. The builders of the next section, Mount Lofty to Nairn, were Bailey, Davis, & Wishart. The tender for the Adelaide-Mount Lofty stretch was £182,000, exclusive of rails and bridges. This was the most stupendous portion of the work, since it involved the construction of no fewer than eight tunnels and two bridges. I will tell you about these viaducts presently.

Stuck In A Tunnel

What I want to relate just now is the story of the opening of the line, when a train conveying South Australia's elect to the christening ceremony got stuck in a tunnel for some hours. It was on March 14, 1883, that the Adelaide-Mount Lofty line was officially opened. There was a great ceremony to mark the event. You see, they weren't so used to opening works which cost hundreds of thousands of pounds in the early eighties as they afterwards became, when they got into the habit of borrowing by the million, or two or three millions at a time, for that matter, whenever the politicians saw a chance to snap up a few stray votes or so.

So they had a banquet, which was a most important affair — except that, instead of taking place at 1 o'clock, it took place at 4 o'clock. The reason for this was that the first train conveying the Governor (Sir William Robinson), the Ministers of the Crown, the members of Parliament, and the the members of Parliament and the cream of the city's intelligence — developed the Australian disease of 'strikitis.' And it chose one of the longest tunnels at Blackwood to throw this fit. In plain English, the engine refused to work. Now, I have passed through those tunnels hundreds of times, and everytime I am grateful to emerge from the sulphur-laden, smoke-tainted atmosphere into God's pure fresh air. Imagine, then, the discomfort of these 200 odd Government guests, imprisoned for three hours in that stuffy tunnel, with the disabled locomotive belching out carboniferous splutter until 200 odd pairs of red eyes wept copious tears, which streaked 200 odd smoke-blackened faces, and ruined 200 odd tailored masterpieces. It was too much for the Governor. He got out and walked. So did everybody else who had any sense.

After a three hours' wait another engine arrived from Adelaide and hauled the iron caterpillar from its dugout. Ald- gate was reached at 4 o'clock, where the banquet was held in a marquee.

The Viaduct

Prior to the middle of 1919, all the hills trains passed over the spider bridge known as the viaduct. I would like to know how many hundreds of thousands of passengers experienced the thrill I always received when the Melbourne express, weighing hundreds of tons, crawled on to the seemingly unstable thing. Of course it was safe enough, except, perhaps, towards the closing days of its career. But to look down from mid-air into the yawning chasm below was, to anyone with imagination, to visualise a mass of mangled human remains inextricably mixed with burning carriages, and the agonised yells of slowly roasting passengers. Travelling towards the city one came on the viaduct suddenly as the train emerged from the last tunnel near Eden — a significant enough name in relation to the picture I have drawn above. The viaduct was completed in 1881 at a cost of £14,441. The last train crossed it on August 11, 1919. Some people speak of two viaducts. But there was only one, which crossed two gullies. The first span was 360 ft., and the second 260 ft. The heights from the bottom of the gullies were respectively 100 ft. and 78 ft. The construction was done by an American company, and the official test was made with a train weighing 200 tons.

This section of the hills line from Adelaide to Mount Lofty was the most expensive of the whole route to Melbourne. Roughly it averaged £20,500 per mile. It was in 1913-14 that the question of heavier engines on the hills line became a public matter. The viaduct was the obstacle. Would the old trestle bridge stand the extra weight? That was the problem. And, as the bridge only had a guaranteed life of 30 years, and had already been in use for nearly 40, it was felt it would be tempting Providence to send heavier trains across. So a deviation and a new tunnel were made, and the old viaduct was abandoned fourteen years ago.

Old Landmarks

I do not think I ought to close this history of Belair without making some reference to the old 'Travellers' Rest' Hotel. Prior to 1866 if you wanted to go to Belair you had to climb there by the old road which turns off from the entrance to Brownhill Creek, passes the Mitcham cemetery, and ascends at a grade no respectable road ought to do. I know, for I tried it myself the other day in a 11-h.p. car, and made bets with myself all the way as to whether I could get up even by using my lowest gear. If you want to try the experiment my advice to you is the same as 'Punch's' famous advice to those about to marry —don't.

When you got to the top of that hill in the forties, before there were any motor cars to worry you, you felt pretty thirsty. So thought Herr Godfred Koll, who, in 1848, established the 'Travellers' Rest' on the summit of the range. Herr Koll continued to rake in good shekels from the travelling public for nearly twenty years. Then along came an inconsiderate Government — inconsiderate as far as Herr Koll was concerned—and opined that the grade was no good for honest Christians. So in 1866 they built the present road via Torrens Park, and declared the old road closed, though it is still in commission for any lunatics like me who desire to dare its dangers. That settled Herr Koll. Traffic which used to struggle up the old road took the new, with its infinitely easier grade, and Herr Koll sadly put up the shutters. The old house was pulled down and a private residence now occupies the site.

Just brief mention of the Kalyra Consumptive Home, to put it on record. This was established in 1894 under a legacy from the late Mr. James Brown a south-eastern sheep breeder, for the treatment of diseases of the lungs. Escourt House, at the Grange, is another of Mr. Brown's benefactions.

NEXT WEEK The Story of Clarendon.

Images:

• The Viaduct at Eden, showing a train which has just emerged from a tunnel about to cross. The first train crossed it in 1881 and the last in 1919. The two spans had a total length of 620 feet. The story of the viaduct is told on this page. —Courtesy of Mr. C. J. Boykett.

Acknowledgement: judithl for OCR text corrections in Trove