No 32 Peterborough

Today Peterborough is a live town with an estimated population of 6,000. It is probably the busiest railway junction outside of Adelaide. Fifty years ago it was a farm which could not be sold at £1 per acre. Before that it was an out-station associated with Gottlieb's Wells, known as the Eldoratrilla Run. The story of Peterborough is one of the most striking in the history of our Northern towns.

Peterborough is one of our largest towns. It is also one of the most interesting. There is something unusually fascinating about its history. You knew it a few short years ago, as a scattered hamlet, scarcely worth putting on the map. Suddenly you are confronted with it as a strenuous, miniature city. It gives you a shock. It is just like the little girl you used to dangle on your knee, telling her fairy tales, and buying her picture books, until one day you awake to the realisation that she is a little girl no longer, doesn't want to sit on your knee, doesn't believe your fairy tales, and is looking round for a husband who will tell her all the fairy tales she wants to know— and a few more.

Peterborough is the pet child of the Broken Hill railway. If it hadn't become the big junction of the north, turning the trains off to Port Augusta, Port Pirie, Broken Hill, and Adelaide at the rate of anything from 50 to 120 a day, it might still have been a rural backwash with the grass growing around the doors of its business places, and the local bank manager sitting on the doorstep with a demand for the liquidation of your overdraft in his pocket. I can assure you that the story of Peterborough is worth the telling.

Began As Eldoratrilla

I suppose there are few people living who have heard of Eldoratrilla. It was an area of 84 square miles of sheep country, carrying 13,000 woolies. An old record describes it as "scrubby rises with bushes and grass, and fairly grassed country, with clumps of pine, sandlewood, acacia, wattle, currant, and other bushes." Today the town of Peterborough occupies a corner of the old sheep station, which was owned by Alexander McCulloch, in association with the head station of Gottlieb's Wells. McCulloch acquired the Wells from the founder, James Logan. Probably Logan also originally held Eldoratrilla— but on this point I am not certain. The story of "old man McCulloch," as he is still spoken of by the old hands, belongs to Terowie. We will be there next week, and I will tell it to you then.

For Eldoratrilla, in spite of its fancy name, was merely an out-station associated with Gottleib's Wells. The Wells was McCulloch's headquarters.

When you look down Main street, Peterborough, today, lined by large and modern business premises, you are amazed to learn that within the lifetime of a man the town has emerged from a state of nature. One old resident, Mr. F. Threadgold, told me of Peterborough when it was open country without fences, overrun by emus, wild turkeys, kangaroos, rabbits, and blacks, and the only settlement was a few scattered shepherds' huts of pine and mud walls and paling roofs. Three tribes of blacks roamed the plains and the hills— the Canowie, Black Rock, and Mannanarie tribes. And that was only 1872.

Peterborough is one of the marvels of the north. In the early seventies it was open farmland, hawked about unsuccessfully at £1 an acre. If you want to buy land in Peterborough today you require fat cheque book or a solid overdraft.

Peter Doecke

You would imagine from the size of Peterborough that it was one of the oldest towns in the State. As a matter of fact, it is a mere youth. Melrose, Port Augusta, and Gawler are aged veterans beside this strutting stripling of the north-east country, which, in 1880, numbered only twenty souls all told. It was fortunate in being able to get the story of Peterborough first hand from those who pioneered the town. It is true! that J. H. Koch, the founder of Peterborough, has passed across the border of eternal sleep. But I talked with his widow and his sons, examined their records, and heard their tales, and I hope to be able to reconstruct for you an authentic picture of the beginning and development of one of the most go-ahead places in the north.

It was in the handsome council chamber of the new town hall that I met Messrs. S. D. Jones (mayor), E. A. House (town clerk), G. H. Koch (a son of the man who founded the town). S. J. Sumner, F. Threadgold, W. H. Bennett. E. Hoile, and R. Heithersey, each of whom contributed more or less to the story I have to tell.

The history of Peterborough begins with the coming to Australia of a German colonist, Peter Doecke. The one or two scant references to Doecke which I have seen in the public records either state or imply that he was never in Australia, or, if he was, that he never lived in Peterborough, although he was the "Peter" after whom the place was named. I was able to establish definitely that Doecke was in South Australia, and that he did live in what is now Peterborough — though not for very long; if Doecke had continued to live in Peterborough its history might have been different.

Following the customary evolution of our Australian towns — pastoral rural, and urban periods— the Eldoratrilla run was resumed for agricultural settlement. In 1875 Doecke took up section 216, hundred of Yongala, or, to be strictly accurate it was taken up for him by his son-in- law, H. H. Rohde. Doecke was at that time living in Kapunda. It was intended to farm the property. We all know the reputation of Yongala —Peterborough is only eight miles distant— as the State's refrigerator. Doecke found it out before we did. The climate was altogether too severe for him. He abandoned the idea of working the property himself, and proposed to put in J. H. Koch as manager.

Here, however, the Government intervened- Doecke was informed he must occupy the land himself. That being impossible, he sold it to Koch, and there his active connection with the still unborn town terminated. It was Koch who laid out and named Petersburg, as it was known before Kaiser Bill started the big argument, and we all got mad and began changing the names of places, and substituting others still less appropriate. If our nomenclators had adopted the melodious place appellations bequeathed to us by the dusky denisons of the bush I might have been inclined conveniently to ignore the insanity which swept us off our feet twenty odd years ago. But to replace pioneer names which had a special significance by other foreign importations, like Gaza, and Cambrai, and the rest of the war-mad designations which might all have to be changed again some day, doesn't strike me as evidence of the calm and sober judgment which is supposed to be one of the special attributes of the British race.

Farm Becomes A Town

The Koch farm was not a success. All the energy and hard work characteristic of the early German settlers were put into the place. The farmer and his wife worked from daylight to dark. Wheat had to be carted to Caltowie (31 miles) and sometimes to Farrell's Flat (75 miles). It was then sold at 2/6. Mrs. Koch (she was the niece of Doecke) worked in the fields, raised a family, walked to Yongala with her butter and eggs, and at night helped in improving the little daub and pine hut which at that time was the only dwelling place on what is Peterborough today. All to no purpose. From her own lips I heard the story of how she used to help her husband dig pestholes to fence the farm, and how, when strangers happened along, she felt too ashamed to turn around to speak to them.

For my own part as I looked at this hard-working pioneer of 83, whose dim eyes now gaze reminiscently over the conglomeration of bricks and mortar which cover the site of her former labors, I could feel nothing but admiration for her courage and loyalty to her husband in the days when life was such a struggle that it was hardly worth while.

Dry seasons. Low prices. That was the total history of the Koch farm in the late seventies. Mr. Koch decided to sell the farm. Nobody wanted it. The 541 acres went begging at £1 an acre. Then the owner had an inspiration. He surveyed the farm into town allotments, called it Petersburg after his friend Doecke, and offered it for sale by auction. The result was unexpected. He sold 33 acres for £1,700. The farm which nobody would buy for £545 realised three times the money for just a fraction of its area, and the owner had 512 acres left to play with.

The original Koch hut, the birthplace of Peterborough, still stands behind the present residence. A photograph is re produced on this page. It was Doecke's original home. In the same year (1880) as the Koch farm was laid out as Petersburg, Heinrich Herman Rohde, the son-in-law of Peter Doecke, subdivided his neighboring farm into Petersburg North, and Peter Liddy laid out Petersburg West. There you have the genesis of the big town we know today.

Peters The Storekeeper

There is an impression in some quarters that Petersburg was named after an early storekeeper called Peters. It is also a local tradition that this Mr. Peters was the first store keeper. Both surmises are inaccurate. Probably they are based on the coincidence of the name. The Peters referred to was originally a store keeper in Yongala in the days when that town was a city compared with the half-dozen or so huts constituting the new settlement of Petersburg. His store was on the stock road to Orroroo. Somewhere around 1880 Peters sold the Yongala store and moved to Peterborough. But he was not the pioneer storekeeper. That honor belongs to a man named Arnold, who was followed by — Hoskin. Peters was the third storekeeper.

In the Koch home one Saturday morning recently I was shown a sketch made of the town in 1880. A scattered little village it was, of eighteen buildings, with not a hint that it would ever become the big place it is today. The proper place for that picture is the archives. It will be of immense value in the years to come in fixing the location of the original buildings. These were (from left to right) :— Mrs. Harvey (nurse), Jackson (tailor), the Koch hut, Pitford (blacksmith), rail way station, Rohde's dwelling and shed (on hill), Wesleyan chapel. Petersburg Hotel, Canary's shop, Retallick's office, Threadgold's store, Brauer's, Garrett's, Arnold's shop, Matty's office, Preece (butcher), Schultz (saddler), Roman Catholic school. These premises comprised the whole of Peterborough in 1880.

Changed Names

When the question of- a name for the new town originally arose, Koch's choice was Petersburg (Peter's Town), after his friend Doecke. Rohde, how ever, wanted it called Glogau, his birthplace in Germany. As a compromise one of the streets was called Glogau street. This thoroughfare was one of the victims of the war, and I became Kitchener street. Similarly Koch street was changed to Collins street.

The founder of the town keenly felt the slight implied by this latter change. When the new town hall was being erected he was invited to lay the foundation stone, and refused. It needed a good deal of persuasion by his family to induce him to change his mind but in the end he performed the ceremony.

Why, I wonder, do so many of our towns dub their chief thoroughfare "Main street?" It suggests lack of originality and a one-horse town. I have come across so many Main streets in my periodical wanderings that I believe I could make a pot of money by wagering that every other town I visit will have Main street scrawled across its front entrance. Now, at the risk of being told to mind my own business, I am going to suggest to the city fathers of Peterborough that on some suitable occasion the opportunity should be taken to commemorate the founder of their town by changing Main street to Koch street, Peterborough, is too big to be little.

"Siberia"

I stood in the control room of the north-eastern division of the railways. I watched and I marveled, and I wondered if the travelling public had any idea of the vast amount of work entailed in securing their safety, and the efficient running of the trains. Here, in a soundproof office, sat two specially qualified officials, headphones to their ears, before them a chart, covering the 24 hours of the day, and every minute of the 24 hours. That chart bore the name of every station and siding in the division. Those two men were in touch with the position of every train on every line. The telephone rang, and the conversation was something like this: —

“'Yunta here. No. 273 just arrived.” The control man ran a mark on his chart from the previous stop to Yunta, thus completing the run of the train from its starting point to Yunta. The chart automatically showed the times at each stage of the journey.

"Shall I go on?" asks Yunta.

"No, hold her there till I give you the word. The express will cross you in two minutes."

So the slower train was held until the express reported its arrival in a similar way. The express was sent on, and the goods train was ordered to resume its way. Or, again: —

"Cockburn speaking, No. 354. I felt a bump crossing the five-mile bridge."

"Right. I'll send a gang up to make an examination." The controller pulls a lever, and is switched over to the line inspection department.

"Send a gang to the five-mile bridge. The driver of 354 reports a bump as he crossed."

So a gang leaves post haste for the bridge to make an examination and effect repairs if necessary. The result is promptly reported to the controller. He in turn sends the train on, or holds it according to the circumstances. So it goes on all day. He is never out of touch with any train. He can tell you at any moment where any particular train in his division is. Intricate, responsible work—but very effective.

I stepped out into the station yard, and climbed the gantry. Miles of complicated railway tracks, locomotive shops, and coal staiths. Dozens of engines — busy, idle, or in the process of getting steam up. Shunting, signaling. Then I understood just how the

railways had made Peterborough, and I began to laugh.

"What's the joke?" my guide enquired.

"Siberia," I answered. He looked puzzled.

"Siberia! I don't understand." I explained. There was a time in the railway history of Peterborough when that station was considered so remote from the capital that it was known in service parlance as "Siberia" — a place of exile. It was considered a sort of punishment to be sent there. Times have changed since then.

Town On A Jamboree

The biggest date in the life of Peterborough was 1884. In that year the South Australian Parliament passed the Bill authorising the construction of the line to Broken Hill. Peterborough went mad with joy. It realised better than anybody just what that line would mean to the town. It meant everything you see in Peterborough today. The whole town started out on a jamboree, when the news came through. The relief of Mafeking was a mild affair compared with that night of hickish oratory and discordant music! A Chinese New Year celebration and a meeting of the A.L.P. combined couldn't produce as much excitement as the magic words, "Bill passed." Bonfires were lighted in the streets, guns were fired into the air, stump orators brought out their soap boxes, and the pub-keepers took off their coats and engaged extra hands to wipe the glasses.

You see for four years previous the town had had a taste of what a railway meant to it when the line came through from Terowie in December, 1880. From that date Peterborough began to grow up, and it is still growing. That is why I say Peterborough is the spoilt pet of the railways.

The Mystery Which Is Man

In Main street, Peterborough, they have notices posted, "Keep to the Left." But no one does. They don't even keep to the right. The only place they keep to is the footpath. Within its ambit they exercise a wide impartiality in the matter of taking sides, and a callous indifference to the rules of the road. On a Friday night you can get down. Rundle street in the city with tolerable comfort, but, if you want to make a similar journey down Main street, Peterborough, you would be well advised to increase your life insurance policy beforehand. They bump you and they jostle you, and they knock lumps of avoirdupois off your anatomy until you feel like a defeated pugilist after a prize fight.

Everybody goes "up the street" on Friday nights. It is the big shopping night of the week. But Lord help you if you are in a hurry. And the trouble with me is that I always am in a hurry. But this going up the street is an entertaining pastime if you have the leisure to enjoy it. You observe Man in all his various moods — and by Man I mean Man in skirts as well as Men in trousers.

Have you ever thought that, every day of our lives, we go through the streets encountering him in thousands, and we pass him by with scarce a glance, and never a thought to the mysteries that have gone to his making. We neither think of the centuries behind from which he has evolved, nor to the ages ahead and what he is destined to become. We just accept him— with not even as much emotion as we extend to our income tax demand. For my part I can never promenade our streets without trying to read the riddle. I never succeed, of course, but I find the subject a fascinating study.

You see, Man is such a complex conglomeration of contradictions that you can't pin him down to certain defined rules, any more than you can pin a politician down to a certain line of policy. But he is interesting. Whether he be an adolescent bounder, parading the streets at night, trying his poor, cheap wit on the girls he meets, be cause his mind is empty and his leisure as boundless as his cheek; or a millionaire seated in a paneled office, devising means of adding another £10,000 or so to his already opulent cash box; or a modern flapper, gravely carmining her lips in a public tram car; or a mother of ten, wondering how she can wheedle a pair of boots for Johnny out of the scanty weekly income— he is an interesting speculation.

Yet what is he? You don't know, and I don't know. We strip him naked, and eye him critically. We find him just a mere mass of flesh, and bone and muscle fundamentally no different from the meat the butcher brings us. As far as the material part of him is concerned we might just as justifiably order a leg of millionaire as a leg of lamb. Even that intricate mass of inside machinery of which he never thinks when things are right, and which he curses volubly when things are wrong, differs but slightly from the animals we consume. We can put him in a crucible, and dissolve him into gas, and separate him into almost every chemical formula known to science. But we can't put him together again. Even though we know to the most minute fraction of what elements, and combinations of elements, he is composed, we cannot create him. He is the most alluring, most baffling, and most wonderful thing in all creation. He is the world's enigma.

The "Dead House"

In the thirsty days of the seventies and the eighties the advent of a hotel was a matter of supreme importance— especially to the shearers, who working their usual beat from north to south of the colony, made these places their "ports" of call for lambing down their cheques. When a bushman of the old school started out to "lamb down" he generally did the job more thoroughly than any other. "Dead drunk" was no meaningless term. For a man who was "dead drunk" there was no better place than the dead-house — and most pubs of the time were equipped with these necessary buildings, where "Banjo" or "Scottie," or "Bill the Nark" could see snakes, and spiders, and other strange phenomena of alcoholic delirium without disturbing the more law-abiding section of the populace.

In the eighties the Petersburg Hotel had it "dead-house." Those days the hotel was a one-storied place with somewhat straggling habits, and the "mortuary" was located in a room at the rear of the bar. Today, Peterborough's first pub is a house of staid respectability, and probably, like the battalions of the nouveau riche, will have to be reminded of its humble origin.

We of 1933 talk glibly about the "good old days." I wonder how we would like to live them. There was no water in Peterborough. The nearest supply was Nelia Well, three miles distant. At the end of a hard day's work the settlers had to go to this well, hauling a barrel behind them on the fork of a tree, and dragging it back in the heat of a merciless sun. This was a daily task. Once a boy fell in one well, and a bullock in an other. This habit of falling into wells was not uncommon. The first man buried in Peterborough was a sailor, who had run away from his ship at Port Pirie, and fallen into a well. He is buried in a corner of the Government reserve, about a mile out of the town — but very few people know of this incident. Another burial place is at the Cross roads, about four miles distant, where the first child to die in Peterborough was interred because there was no local cemetery.

Even in the driest seasons the Nelia well never failed the settlers. Day and night it was surrounded by teams, which found it convenient to camp there on the long waterless stretches between settlements. When the Broken hill railway was being built the Teetulpa gold rush occurred. It was the story of The Granites over again — but perhaps worse. Typhoid fever broke out on the field, and the unfortunate patients used to be brought down to Peterborough, where they were unceremoniously dumped in the streets because there was no where else to put them. Several of these unfortunates passed into the Great Unknown in the streets of the town.

One of the biggest scares occurred in 1892, when word went round that small pox had broken out. The whole of the business section of the town was quarantined. Barricades were erected in Main street, and police stationed in front of houses. For four months the people in the quarantined areas were not allowed to go out of their back yards. All this fuss was over one case, and it cost the business people thousands of pounds.

I have not told you half the things about this interesting town that I intended to tell you — how the corporation came into existence in 1886; how be fore the railway came the settlers had to cart their luggage five miles to Liddy's paddock to get the coach to Adelaide; how the first post-office was established in Threadgold's store, and the first bank in the Peterborough Hotel; and how and when dozens of other first things occurred. But if I started to tell you all the things that ought to be told the story of Peterborough would fill a volume as large as a family Bible.

Next Week— Terowie: Gold, and other things.

Images:

• Mr and Mrs. J H. Koch, founders of the town.

• Koch hut, about the time Peterborough came into existence. Peter Doecke lived here for a short period.

• MAIN STREET IN 1890.

• Mr. S. D. Jones, Mayor.