No 23 Port Augusta

I never knew that bunny was such a bad character until I got to Port Augusta. You see, I arrived in the northern metropolis while it was in the throes of a conference of pastoralists. The hotel overflowed with the species. You couldn't go into breakfast without tumbling over them. The lounges bulged with them. In the morning, as soon as the dressing bell went, the bedrooms exuded pastoralists like the Rundle street department stores exude shop assistants when the clock is striking six. You found pastoralists everywhere — even in the bar!

That was how I came to hear about bunny. I think I was the only person in the "pub" who was not a pastoralist. I had seven of them at my table. It wasn't nice being an outsider. With that tact for handling a dangerous situation on which I rather pride myself, I disguised the fact that I was a newspaper man. So they talked freely about the various misdeeds of bunny, and the hundred and seven ways of depriving him of the right to live. They shoot him, they poison him, they pump gases into his burrows, they drive their motor cars along side his residential flat, attach a hose to the exhausts, and fill his salons with the fumes of carbon monoxide, and they encourage inventors to devise further means of eliminating bunny— and all the time they growl because not enough is being done to place the rodent on the list of extinct fauna. But, come to think of it, wasn't it a pastoralist who introduced the rabbit to this country?

They are a class apart, these men of the country of illimitable boundaries. I watched them standing in little groups, peering into the sky. Away in the north was a small black cloud. To me it was just a cloud. To them it was something infinitely more important—it was life.

"It's raining on Whatyoumaycall it," one of them remarked. All the others gathered round to stare at this tiny black cloud, and to speculate on the chances of a down pour over the thirsty lands reaching away to the back of beyond. They talked rabbits, and sheep, and cattle, and grasses, and spoke in matter of fact tones of their "paddocks"— the said paddocks in many cases being larger than a European kingdom.

"How much are you holding now, Jim?" The little man addressed withdrew his eyes from the cloud, tilted back his hat, and answered nonchalantly, "Not much, about a thousand square miles."

Story Of Port Augusta

I suppose the honor of discovering Port Augusta belongs to Flinders. That was in 1802. At that period, of course, it was just a mass of low-lying mangrove-covered country. There was no Spencer's Gulf. Naturally the gulf was there, but it didn't have a name, and it was not until Flinders found the land beginning to converge on the ship on either side that he began to suspect that it was a gulf. Prior to that he had thought it to be the open sea. When he had confirmed his discovery he "named the gulf after the respectable nobleman who presided at the Board of Admiralty when the voyage was planned, and the ship put into commission." These are the navigator's own words. The "respectable nobleman" was Earl Spencer.

Of course there was no settlement in 1802. South Australia had not been born — indeed, it was not even thought of. But there were plenty of niggers. Flinders never sighted any. But he saw their smoke signals, and no doubt they saw him. You can imagine the excited "yabber-yabber" those signals made as they described the strange-looking monster floating about the sea, and the curious white creatures she carried. You can also imagine the wise old men of the tribes of the interior shaking their heads sadly when they got the "telegram," and remarking to the bewildered lubras, "Them coast niggers tellum plenty plurry big lie."

It was where Port Augusta is now that Flinders got one of the greatest disappointments of his life. He expected to find a fine river flowing into the sea from the interior. By all the laws of geography, or whatever science it is which prescribes the habits of rivers, it ought to have been there.

But we know it wasn't. What some of us do not know, however, is that it was there once. Geologists will tell you it was quite an important river until "earth movements" caused it to disappear. Spencer's Gulf itself is a submerged valley. If you want to find the river you should don a diving suit, and look for it among the fishes. Now, I think, I'll abandon the role of scientist before you find me out.

I have just been looking at an old map of the gulf published in 1839. On it the site of the present town is marked simply, "Flat, wooded country." Naturally it bears no name.

Settlement That Wasn't There

When you look at the old Customs House which is a kind of civic landmark in the port today, you are looking at the spot where, away back in 1853, the first rations for the natives were landed. I'll tell you that story presently. What I want to remark on at the moment is the brilliance of the idea of supplying the blacks with rations, seeing that they had lived for centuries without them. Black brother was not long in discovering the habit of leaning on a paternal Government. We who have followed on seem to have caught the disease. I wish we could forget it.

To return, to the rations. In '53 the schooner Bandicoot (Captain Hay) was dispatched to the head of the gulf with stores. The only directions the skipper had for finding the settlement (which wasn't there) was to look for a flagstaff tied to a mangrove tree, with a Union Jack floating from the top. But no allowance had been made for black brother's penchant for "borrowing" portable trifles which happened to take his fancy.

The little ship cruised about the gulf for three days before it was discovered that the settlement" was right in front of it. A proud buck had wrapped himself up in the symbol of the might of the British Empire, and other simple children of the bush had walked off with the flagstaff, with the idea that it might come in handy for keeping Mrs. Blijim in order. If it hadn't been that the party found the surveyor's marks, Port Augusta might have been missing to this very day.

Place For A "Small Township"

There is in existence in Adelaide a document written by Sir Henry Young when he was Governor in 1852, in which he authorises the Government vessel Yatala "to proceed from Port Lincoln to the head of Spencer Gulf, and (I) request a report of the most eligible site for a depot for imports and exports for the use of settlers north of Mount Remarkable, and also a place of (for) a small township."

Here is a picture of Port Augusta a year later (1853) left by Johnson Frederick Hayward. He was a pioneer pastoralist of the country, and shipped the first wool from there. Incidentally it gives an idea of the troubles the pioneers encountered in those days, though not such a vivid idea as Hayward himself has left on record in his reminiscences:

Sand And Scrub

Describing Port Augusta as he found it on that occasion, Mr. Hayward says: —

I have not the space to give you the whole of Mr. Hayward's story, thrilling as it is. He describes in detail how his best bullock dropped dead from the heat; how, one by one, the other 36, bullocks lay down and refused to move until "I never expected them to rise again, so done were they;" how he abandoned the bullocks, and rode back to the station in a condition of utter dejection, threw himself on his bunk, and went to sleep; and how, in the morning, on going to a waterhole on the property, he was delighted to find that the bullocks had come in during the night of their own accord. Mentioning his second visit to the port with wool the following year, Mr. Hayward says there was "a wooden hut, a wooden pub, and a blacksmith's forge." He adds: "A. D. Tassie was the agent for shipping wool, and proved a very painstaking and agreeable young fellow. He went about without shoes or stockings, it being all sand."

"Father" Of Port Augusta

The "young fellow," A. D. Tassie, mentioned by Mr. Hayward was, of course, Alexander Drysdale Tassie, pioneer storekeeper of Port Augusta, after whom Tassie street is named. You wouldn't envy him in the days when his little iron shanty store was the sole habitation of the "port." The only time he saw a white man was when the teams came in once or twice a year with wool from the stations, or a stray ship happened along to see what kind of a place the new "dump" was. The rest of the year he lived in splendid solitude, except for the perhaps too curious attentions of the blacks.

Tassie originally went to Port Augusta as the representative of Elder, Stirling & Co. After a few years he went into business on his own account. With the increase of settlement the business prospered, and he took a partner. Thomas McTurk Gibson, who later became the first mayor of the town. Tassie was a pastoralist as well as a merchant, though I fancy he found storekeeping more profitable than sheep raising in the uncertain days of the sixties, when that part of the State was held in the hot grip of a record drought which cost the province well over a million sheep. He was only 40 when he died in 1873. In Gladstone square there is a public monument to his memory. I have not attempted to tell you anything about his work for Port Augusta. It would take too long. While he lived Tassie was Port Augusta. We can let it so at that. The inscription on the monument is: —

The First Coach

One afternoon, early in 1864, the day dreams of Port Augusta were rudely disturbed by the sound of galloping horses and the rumble of wheels. The whole population turned out to see what the fuss was about. It was the arrival of the first mail coach from Adelaide. Hugh Williams had the ribbons. Across the sides of the vehicle was the magic name — Cobb & Co. The fussy, important vehicle drew up in front of the old Customs House. While horses snorted and bits clamped, and a curiously idle crowd watched this new marvel of progress, Hiram Mildred, conscious of his high status of postmaster, harbormaster, and Customs officer, came rapidly out of the old building to receive her Majesty's mail. You will not imagine, of course, that this was the first mail received. Prior to the inauguration of the coach the post bags came through Horrocks's Pass to Port Augusta carried by a man on horseback. But the mail coach marked a new era in the postal history of the port.

It was no great time after its advent that an official postmaster was appointed. He was James Fabian Phillips. One of Sir Charles (then Mr.) Todd's proteges. Phillips had been one of the first group of boys to join the telegraph department when the postal Pooh-Bah established his first telegraph station in Green's Exchange, Adelaide, in the fifties. Green's Exchange was in King William street. Bowman's Building marks the site today.

Another picturesque personality of Port Augusta of about this period was the ferryman, John McCarthy. It was the custom in those days for the mails for towns to the west of Spencer Gulf to start from the western side of that waterway. It was McCarthy's job to ferry the bags across. Incidentally McCarthy took passengers backwards and forwards. His headquarters were on the town side. Any prospective traveller, finding himself marooned among the mangroves, attracted the attention of the ferryman by hoisting a flag on a staff McCarthy had erected for the purpose. For the privilege of the ferry the passenger paid 1/ single or 1/6 return fare. There are still McCarthys today plying the trade of watermen at the top end of Spencer Gulf.

Governor's Prophecy

In January, 1878, Governor Jervois paid official visits to Port Pirie and Port Augusta, the latter "for the purpose of turning the first sod of an extensive railway which is about to be constructed running nearly northwards from the head of the gulf at Port Augusta." Here is his prophecy, written at the time:—

That was 54 years ago. South Australia still has visions of that railway!

Over Fifty Years Ago

Fifty-five years ago four vessels traded regularly with Port Augusta. They were sailers — the Yatala, Beltana, City of Adelaide, and Pakwan. When they came into port things moved. They were wool ships, and the vicinity of the wharves were congested by long streams of bullock teams which had come down from the bush country of the north, north-east, and north west. When the "bullockies" started "lambing down" their cheques gore was apt to flow, and the air was filled with hair and profanity. There was a wool press, perhaps more than one, near the wharf, and here a large portion of South Australia's golden fleece was put into bales before being put on the ships.

I met Mr. J. Felstead. He is a commercial traveller who has been more years on the highways of the north than most of his colleagues have been in this world of tears and taxes. He confesses to 83. Incidentally, he is the father of Hilda Felstead, who entertained us all so brightly in the days before she became Mrs. Captain Flanders. Mr. Felstead is called the "Johnnie Walker of the business world." The fact that he is still on the roads he traversed for the first time 57 years ago goes to show that the patriarchial bagman is not mis-nicknamed.

It was because he had known Port Augusta for over half a century that I offered Mr. Felstead a cigarette and a chair, and bade him turn on the tap of his reminiscences. He did, and the flow was a full one. He gave me a picture of Port Augusta in the days of the camel teams, when seventy to eighty of these animals in charge of Afghan drivers could be seen silhouetted against the skyline as they came over the sand hills burdened with wool, or returned laden with iron wire for the far off stations, giving the landscape more of the color of the mystic Orient than the far north of South Australia.

I think it was Sir Thomas Elder who introduced the camel to the north. In that country of limitless distances and limited water he proved a boon. Now he is a pest. The motor lorry is responsible for that. With the coming of the petrol engine, the doom of the camel was written in letters of blood. The camel was abandoned to run wild, to breed, and to multiply. He did all three, until the station people awoke one day to the knowledge that he had become almost as great a pest as the kangaroo and the emu. Now the same war of extermination is being waged against the wild camel as was conducted half a century earlier against the marsupial giants who consumed the scanty herbage required for raising sheep.

In the eighties Port Augusta was a township of goats— the four-footed variety. These animals were the chief source of the milk supply. They also provided a portion of the meat. In those days the rear of the existing post office was a wide, open space, and it was here that rival "billies" fought for the favors of the browsing "nannies." The thuds of their heads coming together in the great love battles of the sandy plains were distinctly audible in Commercial road.

In some of the early hotels kid was served up for lamb. But that was by no means the worst. On one occasion a Chinese cook was complimented by his mistress on the appetising pie he had provided for dinner. Everybody had enjoyed it. He was commissioned to make another like it the following day. His answer floored the "missus;" "Me welly sorry— but puppy dog all done!"

In the days of early Port Augusta, as you may see for yourself from the sketch on this page, there were no wharves. Three or four small jetties ran out into the water. The ships usually anchored out in the stream, and the cargo was lightered to them. The tide was not controlled as it is today between the two shores, but spread itself over the low-lying country in the vicinity of the seafront. It was not uncommon, when wind and tide combined to drive the water town-wards, for the sea to reach up Commercial road as far as the present Flinders Hotel.

By the way, touching the drawing I have mentioned, it bears no date. The archives are anxious if possible to fix the period. They will be grateful to anyone who can give me approximate date of the picture.

Old Ships

Mention of the old Lubra should recall many memories. Like the Royal Shepherd and the Kangaroo, she belonged to the Spencer Gulf Shipping Company, the forerunner of the Adelaide S.S. Company of today. She had two well-known characters as skipper and mate respectively in Captain McCoy and Charlie Pointer. On one occasion a deaf and dumb collector, who habitually received substantial assistance from Charlie Pointer, incurred the mate's displeasure through telling tales out of school. Conversation between the two was conducted by means of a slate. This time when the mute produced his slate the mate wrote: — "Go to hell!" The dumb chap ambled off to Captain McCoy, and wrote indignantly— "Your mate told me to go to hell." McCoy looked at the slate, wrinkled his eyebrows, and wrote in reply — "Well, don't you go."

One more story about Charlie Pointer. He was addicted to two opposite hobbies— religion and profanity. One Sunday morning he was seated on the pier earnestly singing, to the accompanist of his concertina, "Scatter seeds of kindness," when an individual passed who was not exactly persona grata. Charlie put down the concertina, made a vicious kick at his enemy, and roared, "Get out of here you blankety blank blighter or I'll knock your blank head off." Then, as the enemy took to flight, Charlie resumed singing, more earnestly than ever, "Scatter seeds of kindness."

The Lubra was noted for her rolling. She was brought to Australia by Captain Gordon. When he was asked how he got her out from England, he answered, "We just rolled out."

Today And Yesterday

Today Port Augusta is a well equipped town, with most of the conveniences of a city, and none of the drawbacks. Country life has changed entirely within the last generation. Wireless, the cinema, electricity, and the motor car have brought comfort and wiped out distance. This year the three corporations of Port Augusta, Port Augusta West, and Davenport have combined to produce a greater Port Augusta. The Mayor of the enlarged corporation is Mr. J. M. Beerworth [in a photo below], and the town clerk is Mr. L. W. Abernethy.

When I was there the port was extremely busy. Two large ships were loading. The wharves presented a picture of industry. The port has received a wonderful impetus from the transcontinental railway, of which it is the eastern terminus. A large railway staff is settled there. This has been responsible for a goodly sum of floating money, which kept the place going through the years of depression and drought from which it is now emerging.

Before the advent of the Commonwealth railway houses were to be had for a shilling a week. I was told that one man rented a hotel at that modest rent, being put in as a sort of caretaker. But you can't get those terms now, or anywhere near them. Since the railway came the houses have extended north and south, and there is little or no spare accommodation. As I drove round with the mayor on a tour of inspection, he pointed out almost two new suburbs which, have sprung up of recent years. He told me plans were being considered for a "Back to Port Augusta" carnival either next year or in the middle of 1934.

I had a chat with Mr. and Mrs. George Addison, of Port Augusta West. They have lived there practically all their lives. They knew Port Augusta when it was mostly sandhills and scrub. They remembered the school children marching when the foundation stone of the town hall was laid, and the beginning of the hospital as a four roomed cottage with Nurse McDonald in charge. They told me that the first solicitor in the town was Thomas Wigley, who was followed by "Paddy" Kingston, brother of South Australia's former democratic statesman. They remembered the coming of Gooch and Haywood as the port's second storekeepers—A. D. Tassie, of course, being the first— and then the advent of Bignell and Young in a similar business. There were only three hotels in that thirsty country when they arrived in the north— the Globe (Bill Evans), Port Augusta (Mackey's), and Northern (George Brand). The west side of the gulf was the starting point for the bullock and camel teams making for Tarcoola and the West Coast.

Green Bush Hotel

An historic landmark of early Port Augusta was the Green Bush Hotel, a two-storey building standing in extensive grounds opposite the gaol. It was built and run by Mrs. Addison's father (Edward Evans). The old place possessed some remarkable features. The staircase was of cedar, and so was the bar counter. The grounds covered 160 acres of well-grassed land to accommodate the strings of teams which made the house their headquarters on their journeys to and from the outback stations. The place was erected in 1878 at a cost of £3,000, exclusive of £1,000 spent in the construction of a large dam. Mr. Evans would, allow no nails to be driven into the handsome fittings, nor would he allow the use of soap in scrubbing water used on the floors. The Green Bush did a roaring trade in the days before the railway came. It was usual to take £20 to £30 after supper at night.

But the glory of the place departed when the goods train replaced the bullock team. The teamsters came no more, and the house, which had the reputation of never being closed, capitulated to the march of progress. Some years ago it was delicensed. When I was there they were starting to demolish the top storey with a view to turning the place into a single-storey residence. I was fortunate to secure a photograph of the old building almost intact, only portion of the balcony having been removed when I saw the place. [see photo below]

NEXT WEEK: Quorn: Once the Back o' Beyond.

Images:

• Wool teams arriving at Port Augusta West about 1887. -Courtesy of the Archive

• Old Green Bush Hotel, now being converted to a single story residence. [see below]

• Port Augusta at a period not identified. The Archives would welcome information fixing the date of the picture, which shows the town at a very early stage.

• Mr. J. M. Beerworth.