No 24 Quorn

Two hundred and thirteen miles north, ringed by the Flinders Ranges, lies Quorn. In the early days the blacks fought stubbornly amongst these mountain fastnesses to resist the encroaching marches of the whites — but they fought a losing fight. Today, in the basin of the hills, a large and modern town covers the battlegrounds of the early fifties.

They shall not grew old, as we that are left grow old,
Age shall not weary them, nor years condemn
At the going down of the sun and in the morning
We shall remember them.

Those striking lines appear on the cross of sacrifice which is Quorn's memorial to her fallen dead — the men who went out during the black years of 1914—18, when the war trumpets sent their call echoing along the stone lined canyons of the cities, and across the plains and the hills of rural Australia. They struck me as peculiarly appropriate of the heroes who marched out in response to that patriotic call.

But they seemed to me equally appropriate of the men who went into the great unknown in the days before Quorn was, and built out of the wilderness, in the face of insuperable obstacles, the civilisation which permitted Quorn to be. Hats off to them.

Writing figuratively, the last time I heard of Quorn it could not be found. The north was in the deadly grip of one of those periodic droughts which sprinkle the country with thousands of dead sheep and cattle, and turn hundreds of square miles of landscape into clouds of whirling dust. It was in such a brick-colored whirlwind that Quorn was hidden four or five years ago — and the outlook seemed hopeless.

When I visited the town a month ago that picture seemed the result of a nightmare. You could never imagine that mile upon mile of wheatcrop, so high that a man could easily stand hidden in it, brilliantly green, and filled with long heads of bulging grain, was growing on the same ground that a few years previously was a mass of dry, moving red dust, entirely innocent of growth. That is the fascination of the north —its wonderful recuperative powers. The problem of Quorn this season is not to find herbage, but to get rid of it. The rank green growth on the roads outside the town will constitute a fire menace in the summer. This year Quorn is one huge granary. Probably it will harvest record crops. Everywhere there is an atmosphere of optimism.

Looking Backward

I stood on a commanding hill and gazed into the immensity of the north. Out there somewhere lay the Never Never — the country of men. There is romance about pioneering, but the romance is for those who look back not for those who have done, or are doing. Theirs is the life of hard knocks, of an eternal and grim fight against Nature.

In my article on Port Augusta, I made mention of J. P. Hayward, the pioneer pastoralist, who shipped the first wool from the port in '53. But I told you nothing of the man. He held Aroona Station, approximately 130 miles north-east of Port Augusta, then spoken of as "Farthest North." I have chosen Hayward because he is so typical of the heroes of the period who pushed out towards the heart of the continent to wrest fortune from a relentless adversary. Hayward won, but many others failed, and some left their bones bleaching on the track less wastes. But Hayward typified the spirit which conquered, and is still conquering, the capricious country to the north, north-east and north-west of Quorn.

Hayward was born in Somerset (England), in 1822. As a young man he landed in Adelaide with a total capital of £40. He wanted to be a sheep farmer, but he had no experience. So he determined to get it — and he did. In the early forties 180 miles north of Adelaide was equivalent to the last degree of remoteness from civilisation. That was the distance of Pekina station (now Orroroo) from the city— and it was on Pekina station that Hayward got his first job. The salary was £60 a year. For this he was supposed to fight drought, pests, disease, blackfellows, wild dogs, kangaroos, emus, straying sheep, and trackless wastes. If he had any time to spare it was devoted to shearing sheep by hand and getting the wool to market. The inexperienced Englishman won out as a station overseer. He had good employers who, when the time came, helped him to stock his own run.

As if 180 miles was not sufficient distance from the centre of things, Hayward plunged another hundred miles or so into the north. He established "Aroona" somewhere about the site of Blinman today. Then began the fight to win the country from its noli me tangere [touch me not] primitiveness.

Ferocious Blacks

Of all the pests Hayward had to contend against in the Far North, the blacks were the worst. They were bold, aggressive, and cunning. They stole the sheep, and drove them into the scrub. They hid in the fastnesses of the gorges, the ranges, and the boulder-strewn landscape. So cunning were they that they could lie almost under the feet of their pursuers with out being seen. A whole tribe would suddenly swoop down on an isolated shepherd minding his sheep miles from help. They would murder the man and drive off the animals. By the time the crime was discovered they would be miles away in their hiding places. Then the station hands would be rounded up, and sometimes weeks would be occupied in tracking the murderers. It was war to the knife between the two races. Biljim, silently watching the grim trackers from the ledge of a yawning precipice, would suddenly send a spear hurtling through the air — and some poor white would bite the dust. Spat! A bullet from a white man's gun would claim a swift revenge, and the guilty black would plunge headlong to death in the gaping chasm. That was common enough ninety years ago.

Then the trackless wastes. Men wanted stout hearts to set out on a journey of a hundred miles through the unknown bush, carrying water for themselves and their beasts. The sun beat down on the toiling bullock teams crashing a track through the virgin scrub. Animals fell by the wayside when they could go no further. Thirst crazed men left their bones on the track, or wandered demented across the monotonous landscape.

A star by night, or a mountain peak by day, were the only "landmarks" in moving from one point to another. Sometimes there was not even the star or the mountain peak.

When it was not tragedy it was difficulty — smashed or overturned waggons, broken limbs, mutiny amongst the teamsters, sleeping in the open in the pouring rain, foodless and tireless, for there were no matches— just rain soaked tinder which the flint would not ignite. Such was the lot of the northern pioneer nearly a century ago. Why begrudge such men the fruits of victory when eventually they won out? More than a fair share of these troubles beset the founder of "Aroona."

But if the life was hard and intolerant it at least produced men. There was nothing puny about the stout fellows who virtually tore fortune out of chaos. Hayward was no exception. He was 90 when he died in England a couple of years before the war.

I am not pretending that Hayward had anything to do with Quorn. Aroona was many miles to the north of it, and Pekina many miles to the south. But, as I said, he typified the spirit of the times. He did and dared all the things I have described. They were done about Quorn just as they were done about Blinman— and just as they are being done today in the lands further north, where nature is still battling to resist the ever-encroaching march of progress.

Iccala Iccala

That the Quorn country had its share of adventure in the days when black brother was a power to be reckoned with will be gleaned from the story of Iccala Iccala. This run, established by Henry John Richman, was more generally known as Italli Italli. I am told that the former version of the name is correct, and the latter a corruption. I have no personal knowledge of the matter, and old bushmen — such of them as are left — may argue the point for themselves.

In any case, Mt. Brown is better known than either —and it was near Mt. Brown that the station was located. Richman himself appears to have been one of those courageous spirits about whom I have been writing. It was in 1849 that he started out to carve a fortune from the 51 square miles of country over which he became a kind of monarch. He had more experience than capital.

His father was an Adelaide solicitor in the days when the law provided fewer guineas than it does today. Young Richman— who, by the way, was educated at the academy conducted in Tavistock street, Adelaide, by the Rev. T. Q. Stow— had to go to work on a farm on leaving school. But he gained a knowledge of the land. Experience is the best asset. Richman found that out.

The blacks about Quorn those days were no better than they ought to have been— in fact, they were very much worse. They were a sly, thieving, bloodthirsty mob. On one occasion, when John Tennant was travelling sheep overland to Port Lincoln, the party was savagely attacked by the natives close to where the town of Quorn now is. The little band of whites had the struggle of their lives to beat off the attackers and save the sheep. Two white men were killed, and some of the sheep captured. In the circumstances Tennant deemed it best not to proceed, and turned back on his tracks.

The following year he made a more successful attempt. I mention that incident to show the kind of troubles Richman had to face when he trailed north in search of fortune. He had plenty of them. When it wasn't blacks, in was drought. He remained fifteen years on the property.

The Dean of Adelaide (Very Rev. G. E. Young) could, I imagine, tell some vivid stories of the days of this run. He worked on it as a station hand before the call of the church became more insistent than the call of the wild. In those days, of course, Quorn did not exist. But the name of the pioneer is still perpetuated in Richman's Creek and also Richman's Valley in local nomenclature. Before returning this old-time squatter to his honored niche, it is interesting to record that his youngest sister (Olive) married Sir James Fergusson, who was Governor of the province. Another sister married Sir Walter Hughes, the owner of the Moonta mine.

Murder Of James Brown

One of the most tragic episodes of this country was the murder in 1852 of James Brown. He was one of four brothers — the others were Thomas, Robert, and Samuel— who had a station in the vicinity of Mt. Brown. James was a new chum as far as northern conditions were concerned. He had been sent up from his father's property at Willunga to assist his brothers, owing to the absence of labor due to the exodus of men to the newly discovered goldfields in Victoria. He had only been a short time on the property, and was minding a flock some distance trom the homestead, when one night his dog came home without him.

That was an ominous sign. All hands were turned out to search. His body was found without difficulty. He had been attacked by natives who wanted the sheep, and had been beaten to death with waddies. The body was buried in the bush on the site of the crime. You may still see the decaying fence around the grave, which marks the spot today.

The murder created much indignation among the whites. Neighbors from stations miles around turned out to hunt down the murderers. The chase lasted several days over rough country before the pursuers came up with the enemy. The blacks numbered 200, and their camp covered about two acres. They had stolen 700 sheep. The camp was littered with the remains of slaughtered animals where the savages had held a feast.

As soon as the blacks saw the whites they made for the rocks, where they hoped to escape pursuit in the rough country. But the whites were in no mood for fooling. They tracked the murderers with grim determination. Fortunately for the niggers, a police officer was in charge of operations, and the party had to be satisfied with the apprehension and execution of the actual murderer. Such punishment in the circumstances was too lenient. But, of course, it was the law.

Extent Of Black Menace

In previous articles on the depredations of aborigines I told you they were on a scale not to be despised. Just how serious they were will be appreciated when I mention that during the time the Browns had this station they lost over 3,000 sheep by native thefts. The black menace was a nightmare to these settlers who pushed into the northern areas. It was worse than all the other difficulties of pioneering. Only men with iron nerves, hard constitutions, and courageous hearts could live in the wild country of those days. Here is a record left by Mr. Robert Brown of the conditions then existing:—

"We had to struggle against tremendous odds. There were always thirty to forty aborigines against two white men. I have often seen the blacks sitting on the rocks of the Flinders Ranges all day watching my every movement. They would some times roll boulders down a hill towards us, and shake their spears at us, to induce us to fire in the hope that we would empty our muzzle-loaders, and give them an opportunity to rush down on us before we could fill them with fresh charges. On one occasion they tried these tactics when I was two miles from home. Had they known that I had accidentally fired off my last cartridge I am sure I would have been killed."

There wasn't much of the quiet rural life in sheep-farming in the fifties. In case you have any doubts on the subject I will give you another experience of Mr. Robert Brown's. One night the sheep were extremely restless. It was suspected that blacks were about. Owing to the dark it was impossible to see. One of the shepherds took pot shots more with the idea of scaring off the natives than of hitting them. This went on at intervals, until finally Robert Brown could ignore it no longer. He made to throw off his blankets to spring to his feet, out found he could not move. He was pinned to the earth by spears which had missed his body, but had pierced his rugs!

I could give you experiences of this sort ad lib, but I don't want to weary you I just want to make you feel thankful that your period is 1932 instead of 1852. Nowadays most of us scarcely know what a blackfellow is like.

Today you could imagine nothing more peaceful than Richman's Valley, with Mount Brown guarding it in the background. Mr. C. J. Easther motored me out there. I tried to visualise the bloodthirsty scenes I have been describing. I couldn't do it.

Talk On Old Times

The mayor (Mr. S. C. Chennell) and the town clerk (Mr. J. T. Mc Diarmid) had invited several old residents who had memories of the early days of Quorn to meet me. They were Messrs. W. Reid, E. G. Williams, H. Waters, H. H. Hilder, C. J. Easther, W. Foster (a son of the former Federal member for Wakefield), and, of course, Robert Thompson, who was mayor of Quorn so many times that people began to suspect him of making a monopoly of the job.

I would like to crave permission for a few moments to pay a personal tribute to those ladies and gentlemen, not only of Quorn, but of other towns I have visited, who have put themselves to inconvenience — sometimes a long drive over rough roads— to give me the benefit of their early experiences, and so have enabled me to gather data which, probably, would never otherwise have passed into history; for unfortunately the ranks of the pioneers grow thinner year by year, and in a short while none will remain to tell the tales we tell now. If my stories of South Australian towns have any merit at all it is entirely due to those who have come forward so readily to assist me in their compilation.

So it was that at the meeting in the town hall at Quorn that I learned that the town had its nucleus in a small iron store established on the site of the present Transcontinental Hotel by John Cottrell. Cottrell also conducted the post office, but whether he was the first postmaster has not been established. Unfortunately I can not give the date of this townsman's advent, but the inference is that it was prior to the survey of the town by Godfrey Walsh in 1878, for on Christmas Day of that year two hotels were opened simultaneously— the Austral (first known as the Pinkerton) and the Transcontinental. The present hotels, of course, have risen from the ruins of the original structures. The keeper of the Pinkerton was "Billy" Armstrong, and of the Transcontinental, "Billy" Greenslade.

Quorn was proclaimed a town in May, 1878. A fortnight later the first allotments were sold by auction. Allotment 65, purchased by William Armstrong, of Quorn, brought the highest price, £150 for a quarter acre. The lowest price for a quarter acre was £10 5/, at which figure Francis Treloar, of Watervale, bought allotment 265. In September of the same year there was a further sale of town lands, as well as private subdivisions in the near vicinity.

The name is an abbreviation of Quorndon, a town in Leicestershire. The local tradition is that the name was chosen by a private secretary to Governor Jervois, who saw in the northern country a similarity to the famous hunting county of the English midlands. Perhaps he did. But my imagination can picture no likeness between the dry north of South Australia and the moist landscape through which the Soar meanders lazily, oblivious of the baying of the famous hounds. My own opinion is that Mr. Warner, the gentleman in question, suggested the name to his excellency because about that period he succeeded to the family estates in Quorndon.

For many years after being opened up Quom was the "jumping off" place for northern exploring expeditions. That is how Depot Creek close by got its name. The extension of the railway to Alice Springs has robbed it of that distinction these times, but when I was there several overland parties bound for The Granites gold field were making it their headquarters. It was in the days before the railway came that Quorn led the most romantic portion of existence — the days of the teamsters. Good fellows all, hard workers, hard drinkers, hard livers, masters of a lurid vocabulary, they made the old town resound to the cracking of their long whips by day, and the strange melodies of their raucous voices by night. With no thought of the morrow, they lived life as it was supposed to be lived — Bohemians of the road, and masters of the trackless wilds.

The railway changed all that. It wiped the "bullockies" off the map with the same certainty that a sponge cleans a slate. It also virtually wiped out the town of Saltia, which in the early seventies, was a thriving place, but which, today, is little more than a name. In the early days Saltia, at the entrance to the Pichi Richi Pass, was the home of the teamsters' wives, and it was there that, on their way to and from the port, the men camped for days, and woke the sleepy little town to a sense of its existence.

The journey from Quorn to Port Augusta was a hazardous one through the Flinders Ranges. There was no water on the route— just rocks, and hills, and rough dirt tracks. Because of the heat and the absence of water, the journey was usually done at night. Coming back from Port Augusta it was the custom to have a three or four days' "spree" at Saltia, before resuming the weary trek to the Blinman.

There are old residents in Quorn today who remember the coaches which were the monarchs of the road before the trains came to rob them of their majesty. The arrival of the coach to or from the Blinman was the event of the week. All the town turned out to welcome it, and it was a common sight to see police with nigger prisoners chained and ironed on top of the ramshackle affair, which lurched and lumbered over the uncertain roads, giving the passengers more thrills to the mile than they would get out of a switch back ride today. I tried to get the names of some of the more noted "whips" of those days, but the only one that could be recalled was "Johnny" Smoker, who ran the mail through Quorn to Port Augusta.

Prior to the proclamation of Quorn as a town the settlers had to go to Wilmington for their stores, and to Mount Brown for their letters. Then came the railway. The first train to come through from Port Augusta was a picnic train, made up of open trucks, but filled with a merry horde intent on celebrating the opening of the railway in appropriate northern fashion. But when the laden tables were ready for the big feast a real tropical storm swept over the countryside, and away went tables, food, and every other movable thing in a river of water that had been the bed of a dry creek but an hour before.

There was another gay celebration when the line to Farina was opened later. The feature of that affair was the way the champagne flowed. It was served out by the bucketful at the banquet. When the diners had had their fill they amused themselves by calling in the farmers, and filling them up with the celebrated sparkling wine of France. They voted the fun they got out of the affair as worth the cost.

Most of the old teamsters of whom I have been writing have now passed into the Great Unknown. But there are a few left — just the ghosts of their former selves. I met one such Mr. Joseph Brewster, who lives with his sons on a farm at Peak Valley, at the foot of the Devil's Peak.

"I was a strong man in those days," he kept repeating as we talked of the work-filled days, and the lively northern nights, and I could sense underlying the simple phrase an infinitely pathetic regret that the days which had been were no more, and could never be again. Fifty-five years ago, in all the pride of a robust manhood, Mr. Brewster was carting between Port Augusta and the Blinman, braving bushfires and sudden floods. Today he walks about slowly with the aid of a heavy stick, a living reminder of the thing we would most like to forget— tempus fugit. Some day I may give you Mr. Brewster's story.

NEXT WEEK: Wilmington and Caltowie.

Images:

• Richman's Valley, Quorn, with Mount Brown in the background— the scene of some of the episodes related in this article.

• Saltia, entrance to the Pichi Richi Pass, in the days of its greatness— about 1876. -Courtesy of the Archives.

• Mr S. C. Chennell, Mayor of Quorn.