No 30 Jamestown

To me there is always something amazing about the beginnings of a town. Can you conceive of London, that endless conglomeration of masonry and traffic, and perpetual motion, which never sleeps, and never stops its mighty roar, that it once had a beginning — that there was a time when the mighty city was minus a single building, with the sun shining on the sparkling Thames, and no more noise to disturb its serenity than the chirping of a bird. That was so long ago that there is no record of how London came into being, or even how it got its name. Antiquarians are full of theories— but one and all abstain from making a definite pronouncement.

"What has this to do with Jamestown?" you ask. Only this— that as I gazed on the Jamestown of today I was filled with wonder at what man can achieve in a few short years. Imagine, in 1870 Jamestown was just a treeless plain, thickly strewn with stones, and dotted with browsing sheep.

Today it is a large, modem town — buildings of which any city might be proud, electric light, wide and tar-paved streets, plantations, gardens, and even one-way traffic. And all in sixty years! Yet Jamestown has no written history. Like the huge city I have mentioned it has come into being, lived, and grown — its story known to few, and those few fast diminishing. In the council chamber of the corporation one morning I talked about Jamestown with a number of citizens.

They were the Mayor and Mayoress (Mr. and Mrs. F. W. Hase), Councillor G. W. Blaskett, Mr. L. Judell, Councillor E. T. Daly, the Rev. Father Hentschke, Rev. A. E. Page, Miss E. Mitchell, and Mr. W. Naismith (town clerk). The mayor made a fine speech, extolling the beauties of Jamestown. He said it was alive, progressive — a municipal star of the first magnitude in the northern constellation. I agreed — for I had seen Jamestown for myself.

In The Beginning

In the beginning, of course, Jamestown belonged to black brother, before we stole the country from him, and conferred on him the "blessings" of civilisation— including the right to form trades unions, pay taxes, and wear the latest fashion in neckties. When the Crown stripped him of his possessions —a sort of preparatory bout for treating his white confreres of 1932 in the same manner— the country was let under pastoral lease to John Bristow Hughes, who founded Bundaleer. That is the genesis of the first occupation of the area on which Jamestown stands today.

Story Of J. B. Hughes

First a word of warning. Do not confuse John Bristow Hughes with the Hughes brothers who owned Booyoolie. I told you their history in the article on Gladstone. John was their elder brother. It is true he selected Booyoolie, just as he selected Bundaleer, and that the two huge stations adjoined each other. But after a few years Herbert and Bristow Hughes acquired and conducted Booyoolie, and John ran Bundaleer as an independent concern. The history of Bundaleer has little in common with the history of Booyoolie.

It is just slightly over 115 years since John Bristow Hughes first saw the light in Liverpool. He was a delicate young man when he came to Tasmania some time in his early twenties, where he was the friend of the Lieutenant-Governor, Captain (later Sir John) Franklin, that intrepid sailor who some years later perished in the Arctic after discovering the North-West Passage. South Australia was not four years old when young Hughes came across the strait with a shipload of sheep, determined to try his fortunes in what was then considered the most promising of the Australian colonies. He was just 23.

Straight away he pushed into the "Farthest North," first selecting Booyoolie, then Gnangwea, and finally Bundaleer. The area of country comprised in these holdings was enormous. The properties adjoined, and John Hughes brought his younger brothers, Herbert and Bristow, from England to assist him. The three lived together on Bundaleer.

In 1847 John Hughes acquired a wife.The fact is historical because she was Margaret, daughter of William Bartley, a Liverpool solicitor, who, coming to South Australia, established the legal firm of Bartley, Bakewell & Stow. That firm, with several variations, has existed to this day. This must be something of a legal record, though I have not been brave enough to take on the research which would establish or disprove the claim.

Lord Salisbury's Visit

In 1851 Herbert and Bristow Hughes bought the Booyoolie and Gnangwea properties from their brother, and from that date, until he disposed of the station to Charles Brown Fisher, John Hughes carried on Bundaleer alone. I suppose one of the most notable visitors who ever set foot on the soil of Bundaleer was Lord Robert Cecil, who, as the Marquis of Salisbury, was one of the greatest of the long line of distinguished statesmen who made the reign of Queen Victoria so notable. A Conservative of Conservatives, the story of Salisbury is one of the most fascinating chapters in modern political history— but, of course, I cannot give it here. What does concern us intimately, however, is the fact that Salisbury made his long ride from the old York Hotel to Bundaleer in a dog cart. Knowing something of that road, even in its improved state today, I'll wager he never forgot it while there was breath in his body.

John Hughes was lucky at Bundaleer. He made a "pot" of money before he retired. Then he showered it about with extraordinary generosity. Most of you know the beautiful Anglican church on the Port road at Woodville, built in typical English style. I never pass that building without admiring it. John Hughes paid for that church, not only for every stone in it, but even for the footstools and the hymn books. He was nothing if not thorough.

There was one characteristic of the squire of Bundaleer I ought to have mentioned earlier. He had a pugnacious temperament. I don't quite mean that he wanted to knock down everyone who disagreed with him. But, having made up his mind that he wanted a thing, well, he saw that he got it. You could move heaven and earth against him, but he just wouldn't budge. That peculiarity came strongly into evidence in the case of St. Margaret's— the Woodville church I mentioned. It was Hughes who named the church, and I should imagine that a man who built and equipped a church had a perfect right to name it, so long as he avoided pagan nomenclature. But Bishop Short, the Anglican Pooh-Bah of the day, who, on occasions could take off his respectable black coat and give a man a thrashing, didn't think so. There was a fearful shindy between Hughes and the bishop over the name.

"St. Jude's," said the bishop, snapping his jaws.

"St. Margarets," said Hughes, metaphorically shaking his fist under the episcopal nose.

The bishop refused to consecrate the church unless the squatter gave way. But the squatter opened the church as a Congregational building. Now no bishop, so far as I know, likes to see a beautiful church building handed over to the "heathen," especially when he can get it for nothing. So Bishop Short hastily capitulated, and St. Margaret's the church is to this day.

Fortune Declines

There are one or two important points which must be included in the story of J. B. Hughes. One of his strangest gifts was to the Government — a railway-station on the Port line. For years it was a mansion on the route in comparison with the tin shanties which did duty as railway stations between the city and South Australia's front door. For that matter, they are not much better today. I'd like to give you my views on the whole panorama which meets the eyes of overseas visitors entering the State at the Outer Harbor, but I haven't room, which is rather a pity. Another curious thing about our friend of Bundaleer was that he was a member of the Torrens Ministry, yet he was bitterly opposed to the Torrens Real Property Act. Apropos of Torrens, when is South Australia going to put up a statue to the man who put through the great land transfer reform which has since been copied by almost every country in the world?

Towards the end of his life Hughes's fortunes declined rapidly. After a visit to England, he returned to Australia, and again ventured into the pastoral business. But fortune was in a fickle mood, and he lost money heavily. In the end he came to acting as manager of other people's stations. His end was tragic. While visiting Queenscliff (Vic.) in 1881 he was drowned.

The Farmers Come North

I want to present to you, if I can, a picture of the Pilgrim Fathers of Belalie in the early days of the seventies, when they treked northward along the old Blinman road like the advance guard of a victorious army before whom the enemy— in this case the squatters— retired in hopeless confusion. They represented the second phase in the development of Jamestown — first the pastoralists, then the farmers, and finally the townspeople.

Imagine, then, the old Blinman road, not much better than a bush track, mostly, if not entirely, innocent of metal. Two heavy, creaking waggons and a dray drawn by bullocks, laden with the family furniture— as little of it as they could conveniently take, for space was precious, and the farm equipment came first. Father, mother, and the children walked wearily most of the way because there wasn't room for them to ride, for cows, pigs, dogs, horses, cats, fowls, and a few sheep had to be accommodated and cared for on the grand trek. In summer the going was good, in spite of the clouds of choking dust. In winter the roads were mostly bog. The greater part of the journey was through thickly timbered country with scarcely a landmark to guide the adventurers into unknown territory. They had no idea where their blocks were located, or what kind of country they were. To them they were just a number that had to be found— something like a chance in a lottery; a few prizes and a great many blanks.

Their chief difficulty was to know where to branch off, for there were no district roads that might lead them somewhere, and no Automobile Association signs saying "Tlmbuctoo 130 miles." You just had to take your chance with a compass, and estimate your distance from the starting point the best way you could. If you were unlucky, you would meet some stranger who would give you bad advice, which, if you had been unwise enough to follow it, would land you some miles off your course, until night came on, and you begin to get suspicious that your direction was all wrong. Then you camped where you were, and next morning at daybreak, after making sure that your scanty water supply was intact, you retraced your steps over your own tracks, and stuck to the main "road" until you felt like venturing on another excursion into the wilds. Or, perhaps, just about the time that you were feeling so depressed that your heart was down in your boots, you would meet some cheerful idiot, and ask him—

"Do you know where I can find Block 0014A?"

"Block 0014A! 'Struth, man, your luck's out; it's nothing but a heap of stones."

That is an actual picture of a pioneer moving job in the seventies, given to me by an old lady who, as a youngster, bounced gleefully along the trail, thinking life a great joke, and knowing nothing of the consuming anxiety which burned in the minds of her parents.

Pioneer Difficulties

When this particular family reached its destination it found that the cheerful idiot's information was all wrong— as cheerful idiots usually are. Instead of the "heap of stones" which had been predicted for their future home, the Mitchell family found their property to be one of the choice blocks of Belalie East. In thankfulness for this pleasant surprise they called the farm "Glen Providence," and it bears the name to this day.

Jamestown today strikes you as a miniature city set in a forest. There are old trees everywhere— a wonderful avenue of them down the centre of Ayr street, and a picturesque array of old gums along the Belalie Creek. That fact is worth remembering, because all this arboreal decoration has been put there by the hand of man. I will tell you the story of the Jamestown trees plus tard.

But when the first settlers arrived in the seventies there were no trees in Belalie, not even along the creek.There was one solitary gum leading a lonely existence opposite where the Soldiers' Memorial is today. When the pioneers reached their Promised Land there was no timber for building houses. The nearest supply was the Burra— and it took three days to bring it up.

Meanwhile the settlers lived in tents, with blacks, emus, and kangaroos for close neighbors. Rough posts were driven into the ground, and a fence of six wires was erected as a yard to divide the sheep. Conditions — well they were as primitive as you like to imagine them, and then worse. There was no water, except for some holes in Belalie Creek.Later dams and wells came into existence. But they took time to construct, and many dud holes were sunk. The settlers just got water where they could, and carted it long distances. But there was a wonderful spirit of camaraderie. Those who had water supplied those who had not. The Mitchells were fortunate. They located water on their property by "divining," sank a well, and got a good supply. It is still there after fifty years, as clear, as cold, and as plentiful as ever. That well has never gone dry.

The pioneer settlers who made the great adventure in 1871 were Messrs. Robert Mitchell (whose story I have given you as typical of all), George Burton, James Cram, Moore brothers, John Noblett, James Goodes, Robert Richardson, Robert Watt. Joseph Thyer, James Jones, W. Rankin, Maitland brothers (3), William brothers (4), Henry Brooks, David Longbottom, James Neale. All these settlers took up holdings in Belalie East.

There was very little settlement on the other side, now called Belalie South. But those who took up land on the south side shortly after, included Thomas Burford (1871), Edward Dunstan, W. Symons, James Eiwin, R. H. Williams, Walter Moyle, Tom Pilkington. — Kelly, John Ferguson, — Collins, — Sambell, Tom Jenkins, Robert Brown, and — Hatchett.

Locusts Eat First Crop

The first house to go up in the Jamestown district was a wattle and daub affair made from lime burnt by Robert Mitchell. The manner of its construction was thus: A mould was made of rough timber, into which was made of rough timber, into which the building mixture was put by hand, being thrown in heavily but not rammed. A length of wall about a foot high was constructed round the house at a time. When the round was completed, the first side started was dry enough to allow the mould to be moved higher. This was continued until the building was ready for roofing. Most of the settlers passed from the tent stage to the tin house. The winters were frightfully cold— Yongala, the State's iceberg, is only 20 miles distant — and there was no wood about Jamestown for fires. All wood for burning had to be carted from the hills, many miles distant. So difficult was it to get supplies that Mr. Mitchell bought a special 40-acre block at Canowie Belt to give him firewood. Canowie Belt derives its name from this belt of woodland ten miles distant.

The capital of these early settlers mostly comprised a wonderful stock of optimism. And they needed it. The first crop, on which they had set high hopes, was eaten in a night by a plague of locusts. When the crusted insects had passed over the ground it looked something like the desert of the Sahara. But there was good stuff in the pioneers. They did not stand round looking like a chapter from Lamentations. Instead they got to work, harrowed in the remaining heads with a sapling, and next year got a 25 bushel crop. And great was the rejoicing in Belalie!

Getting the wheat to market was almost worse than getting it past the grasshoppers, the caterpillars, and the rabbits. It had to be carted forty miles to Farrell's Flat by horse and bullock teams, over "roads" which existed more in imagination than in fact. Only two trips a week were possible. The price was 3/— but it paid. You see, there wasn't any Arbitration Court, or any tariffs worth the name, and our politicians had not then perfected themselves in the art of spending ten millions for every five they received. As Miss Mitchell put it to me: "This was the Back of Beyond in the seventies. Everything was frightfully primitive. But everybody was happy. There were no rates and taxes— and we were just one big family."

To my ears there is something delightfully luscious in that phrase, "no rates and taxes." It sounds like one of those pleasant dreams we sometimes have, in which we find ourselves transported into a state of ethereal happiness almost unbearable because of its very sublimity. But, alas, they are only dreams — and as sure as Christmas Day comes round, Mr. Commissioner Cornish sends you those pink and white reminders that the only reason for your being is to find the wherewithal for that mystic operation known as "carrying on the Government." He gives you thirty days to find it — and he gives you two years or more if you don't! I don't like Mr. Commissioner Cornish, but I'm afraid to tell you my opinion of him. If you happened to be round about our neighborhood the day those bi-colored papers arrive you could easily guess it. My wife declares that possession of a husband who can't receive his income tax demands in a spirit of patriotism ought to be made a ground for divorce. But then — she doesn't do the paying.

Coming Of The Town

When an army of settlers forty or fifty strong invade the wilds they have to be fed and clothed and provided with all sorts of things they can't do without, and a great many that they can. Obviously a busy farmer can't be for ever doing a fifty mile hike to the Burra when his missus wants a packet of pins or a comforter for the baby. Being human, he'd infinitely prefer to buy them on the spot.

Evidently this idea occurred to Robert Hall some time in the early seventies. So Robert Hall established a store, and unconsciously made himself a figure in history as the pioneer storekeeper at Jamestown— though it wasn't Jamestown then, or even James's Town, as I have seen it figuring on some early maps. It was just Belalie. Seemingly Mr. Hall had a flair for business, for he added a wine licence to his store. He prospered, for, after conducting the shop for a considerable period, he sold it to a Mr. Gregory, and built the Belalie Hotel, which was let to Jack Roberts. Soon after this the second hotel— the Jamestown — came into existence. The town was now growing, a sparse and scattered affair of which I shall give you a glimpse in a moment, and had been christened with a name. A blacksmith (Maynard) had started a shop on the land now occupied by the National Bank (the first bank), and a carpenter named Pannell had found a location for his bench and tools.

Have a look at the picture on this page and you will see Jamestown of this period. You won't recognise it, of course. It is as much like the large and modern town of today, with its two-storied buildings, and well laid out streets, as present day man is like his Neanderthal ancestor.

Here is Jamestown in 1873, as pictured by a writer who visited it just to see what sort of a place it was:— "Jamestown might claim to be a town ship of magnificent distances, so far apart are its buildings scattered. It boasts two pubs of imposing appearance. That at which we halted began business only last Monday, its opening having evidently been hurried to catch the custom brought by a great ploughing match yesterday— traces of which might be observed in the not quite sober groups hanging about the inn doors. The landlady was a French woman who, in the expansion of her heart on hearing herself addressed in her own language, confided to us much of her history. We had a very fair dinner, despite the fact that the house was yet far from organised, and served French fashion in the specious salle a manger we might have imagined our selves in the hotel of some country town in France."

The "great ploughing match" referred to by the writer was the inaugural Jamestown Show. This was held on Richard Mitchell's paddock. Of course it wasn't called a show; only a ploughing match. In case there may be enthusiasts of Belalie Agricul tural Society inclined to remind me that the first show of the society was held in 1875, I may as well tell them right here that I know it as well as they do. But historically the ploughing match of 1873, and the second held on Robert Hall's farm in 1874 were the first two shows, for directly out of them sprang the formation of the agricultural society, whose initial exhibition was held in a paddock between the present Catholic Church and the town. Facing the showground was the old Belalie Hotel— long since pulled down.

Naming Of Jamestown

It seems to me that Sir James Ferguson, when he was Governor, had a mania for throwing family names about. He labelled Edithburgh with the name of his first wife, called Maitland after another relative, and, I believe, in the case of several other towns, perpetuated Fergusonian uncles aunts, grandmothers, and other ancestral appendages, who were as much interested in South Australia as South Australia was in them. Then, apparently, having exhausted the stock of family nomenclature, he had to fall back on his own name when it came to finding a label for Jamestown. It is named after Sir James Ferguson. My quarrel with him on that account would be less bitter had Jamestown not already received an appropriate native designation in Belalie. Possibly Sir James was a very nice man, but, when it came to naming towns— well, I leave it to you to say whether or not his judgment was at fault.

It was in 1878 that Jamestown became a corporation. The fact is worth noting because its first mayor was Sir John Cockburn. Of course he was not Sir John then, nor had he achieved that distinction in public life which came to him in later years. But that is where he learned to give and take the hard knocks which are the lot of all who aspire to be the leaders of men. The wonder to me always is that there are so many willing aspirants. And, I believe, there were hard knocks, even for the mayor of Jamestown.

Somewhere about the first or second, mayoral term there was a battle royal on the subject of tree planting in the streets. Cockburn was for planting. An influential section of the ratepayers was opposed to it. Cockbum carried on, and when his term expired his opponents declared that, by hook or by crook, he should not be re-elected. But he was. At this time he was just a country doctor with a scattered practice. He was under 30. He had begun to dream of public life, but I doubt if his dreams extended to the Premiership of the State. But he got there. He was the first chairman of the School of Mines. He was many other things as well, including Agent-General, and State representative of the Convention which gave us Federation. But this is not a biography. His record is easily accessible to anybody who wants to read it.

It is on the subject of the trees that I want to expound a little. I told you earlier that in the seventies there was one solitary tree in Jamestown.That was used by the settler as a landmark to find the town. Imagine that, you people who are so justly proud of your wide streets, your fine shops, your tar paved roads, your kerbed footpaths, your beautiful avenues, your electric light, and all your other conveniences and accessories which makes Jamestown worth living in— Jamestown was so small, so insignificant, so roadless, that the only way the pioneers could find it was to take a hill as a landmark and keep on keeping on until they found that solitary tree. Then they knew that the odd shanty or two scattered far apart was Jamestown. Why in the circumstances, there should have been such a father of a row when Cockburn wanted to plant trees on a shadeless plain is beyond me— except that the trees had to be paid for, and that part of the job fell to the ratepayers. One of the most bitter leaders in the fight against the trees was a publican. Probably he thought that shaded streets would be less productive of a fine, manly thirst than the stark plains of lurid heat.

But Cockburn's work has justified itself. I believe if you attempted to remove a tree today from the fine boulevards in Ayr or Irvine streets you would be hanged, drawn, and quartered—and that, in my opinion, is proper punishment for the slaughterers of trees.

Conclusion

I could tell you a lot more about Jamestown, but even newspaper articles have their limits, and mine has been exceeded. I could tell you how the children had to be sent to Clare, 40 odd miles away, to be educated; how some years later, the first school was opened in the present lecture hall behind the Methodist Church; how, not being able to secure a house in Jamestown, Mr. Wade, the first master, had to walk six miles to the school from Belalie East, and six miles back; how the Jesuit fathers used to come from Sevenhills to conduct Catholic services in private houses because they had no church; and how the Methodists, the Presbyterians, the Anglicans, and other denominations encountered and overcame pioneer difficulties, the very thought of which makes one shudder today. Perhaps, later, I may be able to give you these stories— but not just now.

NEXT WEEK: ORROROO

Images

• Mr. F. W. Hasc Mayor

• Jamestown was very small potatoes in 1876, and was described as "a town of magnificent distances."