No 33 Terowie

In this article you meet Terowie in the days of its youth. Alexander McCulloch, John Chewings, and George Hiles flit across the stage; you see the old teamsters at work and play; you see the station become a farm, and the farm a town, and you encounter the old stage coaches covering long and lonely stretches in the days that are gone.

When you look at Terowie today, staid, aged, and highly respectable, with all the signs of a venerable old age about its buildings, you would be hard put to it to imagine the gay place it was in the days of its youth. Towns are very much like people. When they are young and full of vigor they are apt to get up to all sorts of wild tricks. But as the years pass discretion comes, and then a sympathetic tolerance for the follies of the young.

Terowie today has reached the latter stage. There was a time when Terowie consisted of one building— a hotel. If the tales I heard were true it was straining the truth to call it a hotel. It was a hole in the ground — a dug-out if you like — roofed, over with grass and dirt. I was told that in the earliest days of its existence it did not even comply with the formality of obtaining a licence. And, as our mutual friend, Bill Shakespeare, remarked on more than one occasion, thereby hangs a tale.

In those days, before Terowie as a centre had any existence at all, except for this subterranean spot of cheer on an otherwise wide and desolate plain, what settlement there was took the form of a few scattered huts around Gottlieb's Wells. Gottlieb's Wells was a noted sheep station owned at that time by Alexander McCulloch. You will meet McCulloch later in this article. The shearers, rouseabouts, and other human flotsam and jetsam of this sea of grassy distances, hailed the advent of the hilarious cellar with about the same enthusiasm as we would show to a 25 per cent reduction in our income tax. Anybody who has experienced the north in a hot spell knows just how close to Hades it can be, and a cool hole in the ground with liquid refreshment at one's elbow is not to be despised.

But miles away — I am not sure whether it was Melrose or Port Augusta —was a certain police inspector. News travels in the bush, and the inspector heard of this new development with a disapproving ear. He sent a disguised policeman to work on Gottlieb's Wells station, and incidentally to frequent the Paradise down below until he had secured enough evidence to convict the errant Bung of sly grog-selling. Bung had to pay a heavy fine.

But the point of the story is in the sequel. Bung was a pugnacious gentleman who knew the law of the day as well as the police. He laid an information against the inspector for aiding and abetting the sale of drink on unlicensed premises — and secured a conviction.

It was shortly after this incident that John Mitchell built the Terowie Hotel on the site of the strange pub and secured a licence for its conduct. This hotel was the nucleus of the settlement which eventually became Terowie. Incidentally Mitchell owned the farm on which the town stands now. it was he who cut up the farm into township blocks, and so brought Terowie into being.

Gottlieb's Wells

In giving you that story to show how Terowie came into existence in 1874, I skipped 20 odd years of history. We will now go back to 1851, when James Logan founded Gottlieb's Wells station and George Hiles, John Chewings, and William Dare took up adjacent properties. So far as I can make out Terowie stands partly on portion of what was Gottlieb's Wells and partly on portion of Munjibbi (Hiles and Chewings), with Dare's station as a close neighbor. The corners of these stations apparently converged on the site of the future town.

Few people remember Logan. Even the name has passed into obscurity with the lapse of 80 years. Yet he was a squatter in a big way. In addition to Gottlieb's Wells he held 57 square miles of country in the Crystal Brook district and 93 miles in the hundred of Whyte. He does not appear, however, to have remained more than 10 years or so in Australia. It was he who sold Gottlieb's Wells to Alexander McCulloch— and it is with McCulloch chiefly that the earlier history of Terowie was associated.

The story of Terowie, past and present, was told me in the institute by Messrs. E. M. Jenkins (chairman of the district council), A. Keats (district clerk), A. R. Tuck, W. D. Roach, John Langley, and H. Roach.

In the seventies, before Terowie was, all the business of the district was done at Gottlieb's Well, three miles distant. It was there that the coach on the way to the Blinman changed horses, and there that the farmers went to get their mail. The station was the centre of all activities for miles around. Alexander McCulloch was its uncrowned king.

The coach was not always on time. Sometimes it was hours late. Roads that were not roads made the timetable something to be observed if possible. The term, "weather and circumstances permitting" was something more than a mere commonplace. You couldn't slide along those slippery clay patches our forefathers called roads in the winters of the seventies with the feeling that you were going to arrive at your destination as the clock chimed the hour. Often there was no clock to chime. More often still the coach couldn't ford the swollen streams which changed into young Niagaras when the rain came down, and you camped by the roadside for the night, and kept yourself warm the best way you could. For it is characteristic of these northern plains that while they are extremely hot in summer they are also extremely cold in winter. The great kitchen at Gottlieb's Wells was a sort of local clubhouse— a social oasis in the vast desert of sheepland. Here the farmers, waiting for their letters, would foregather round the big fire in the great open fireplace, and swop lies till midnight with the gusto of a fishing party. And yarns! I'm quite sure 'The Chronicle's" Hoe press would refuse to print them.

Joys of Coaching

I have already given you a glimpse of the "joys" of coaching. Here are a few more. On these dark wintry nights, with the rain coming down like a machine gun "strafe" in the late discussion on "Deutschland uber Alles" and the heavens looking like nothing at all except a vast expanse of yawning void, it was impossible for the drivers to see ten yards ahead along the narrow bush tracks buried under sheets of black water. The wise driver never tried to drive. He turned out his lights, gave the animals their heads, and trusted to Providence. The horses generally got him through. There were no fences those times. All sheep were shepherded, and the country was open. It was not uncommon for the coaches to get lost, and to turn up hours behind time next day. But no one worried. Time did not exist.

When the fences came things were worse. One coach went over a five wire fence in the dark. It took hours to discover which was coach, which horses, and which passengers. The only sure thing about that episode was the profanity. The coaching service was inaugurated by Cobb & Company. They were succeeded by J. G. Terry, and later by Hill & Company.

The Lost Notes

Before I put the coaches back on the shelf of the shades of Time there is one other story I ought to tell. One day, when the coach from Beltana to Burra Burra had passed through Gottlieb's Wells an hour or two previously, a farmer named James Hooper was leisurely wending his way homeward when he saw a flat, black object on the road. He picked it up. It was a wallet containing £350 in banknotes. He was near his home, and miles from the Wells, so he handed the package to his wife with instructions to hold it until he paid his next visit to the station, when he intended to inform the police. Some hours later, when he was working near the road, he saw a worried looking stranger come slowly along the track, scanning it carefully from side to side.

"Lost anything, stranger?" he enquired.

"Yes," said the man looking up, and his eyes were full of tears, "I've lost the whole of my life's savings. It doesn't matter very much for myself, but I'm sorry for the old mother. I've worked all my life to buy her a cottage—and now I've lost the money."

"Come up to the house,"said the honest James, "I found your wallet."

Alec McCulloch

When you hear the tone in which the old hands speak of "Old Man McCulloch" you know immediately the deep affection they still have for the gruff old Scotsman of the big voice and bigger heart. McCulloch was one of those bluffs who would have you believe his huge bony frame contained not a speck of sentiment—and yet was all sentiment. Just after the town started Gottlieb's Wells was the camping ground for all the itinerant gentlemen of the swag, who passed it on their northward trek. It was necessary to obtain McCulloch's permission to camp. One day he was approached with the usual request for accommodation by a lanky swagman.

"Hoot, mon!" roared McCulloch; "d'ye think I keep a blanky boarding hoose?"

Without a word the stranger picked up his swag, and set off for the town. Fifteen minutes later McCuiloch rode up to his overseer.

"Bob,"he said, "tak' a nag an' gang after yon mon. Bring him back, gie him a meal, an' tell him to camp in the hoose with the men."

Bob and "Old Man McCulloch" were always nagging one another. The never-ending dispute between them was water, for the sheep. Four thousand woollies would soon drink a reservoir dry in the hot months, unless supplies were rationed. As Bob's flock was a particularly vigorous one, McCulloch would allow him to water them only twice a week. This used to make Bob mad, but McCulloch was adamant on the point. The great tank had a curious tap, which could only be turned by means of a huge lever. McCulloch never let the strange key out of his possession. He even slept with it. One hot day Bob brought his sheep to the homestead for a drink. There was the usual argument.

"I'll no gie ye a wee drap," bellowed McCulloch, and he stalked off into the house.

Bob in his temper made a vicious kick at the tap, and to his surprise it began to trickle. He found then that by exerting his strength he could then just turn it on. That day the sheep got the drink of their lives. Just as the orgy was finishing, out came McCulloch. His face was a study.

"How did ye do it?" he asked.

"I turned it on with my hands," said Bob.

"Hey, mon; but ye must be stronger than Sampson himself."

Bob refused to part with the secret until "Old Man McCuiloch" bribed it out of him by promising that his sheep should have a drink every second day.

Terowie Born

The old Gottlieb's Wells station was resumed for agricultural settlement in 1871-2. John Mitchell bought one of the farms. After conducting it as a wheat-raising proposition for a few years, he had it surveyed, cut up into town allotments, and sold. That is how Terowie came into existence. The hotel I have already told you about was at that time the only building in the district.

Shortly after the survey, a man called Mutton erected the first store, which was built of pine. Mutton later removed to Yongala, where he opened a butchering business — an occupation more in keeping with his name. His advent as a storekeeper in Terowie was followed by an uptodate store opened by Thomas Hosking.

The pioneer school was inaugurated in 1874. It was a small affair held in a pine hut on a farm about a mile out of Terowie. The teacher was Miss Manuel, the sister of a settler. On Sundays this little hut was also used as a church. This school carried on until the public school materialised. There, is a story about this public school.

When Terowie was emerging from the swaddling clothes stage it began to get big ideas about its future. It wanted a public school, and, like the baby which took a fancy to a certain line of soap, wouldn't be happy till it got it. But the Minister of Education of the day was not the type which developed later, pouring borrowed millions into the laps of the infants of the colony in the more or less sacred name of education. He told the settlers bluntly that they couldn't have a school because the State couldn't afford it.

"Will you give us a school if we pay half the cost of the building?" enquired the deputation which put the matter before his Mightiness.

"Yes," the Minister answered promptly, seeing a quick way out of the difficulty, and never dreaming that the Terowie people were serious.

"Done," said the deputation.

Before the astonished boss of the department could gasp out a protest a cheque for a substantial amount was thrust into his hand.

Terowie got its school. It also got a better building than otherwise it would have done. It is one of the few instances on record in which townspeople have defrayed a considerable part of the cost of a local school. That story illustrates the spirit of the people who laid the foundations of Terowie. Mr. Mitchell, the founder of the town, gave the land for the school, the institute, and the churches. Both he and his wife are still spoken of as kindly, generous people. But, it seems to me, kindness and generosity are peculiar attributes of the people of the north.

Wild And Woolly Days

Terowie saw its best days before the railway came, and during the brief period it enjoyed the distinction of being the head of the northern line. Those days the teamsters were the kings of the transport world. It was not uncommon for sixty teams, bullocks, and horses, to pass through in a night, bound for the Barrier Ranges. There were times when the town was so crowded with strings of yoked oxen and heavy waggons that latecomers were hard put to it to find accommodation — or even room to spell their cattle.

There were wild days and wilder nights those times, when the seventies were drawing to a close. It gives the old hands a thirst now to think of the beer consumed by those moleskin-garbed toilers, whose long whips cracked like pistol shots, and whose profanity towards Strawberry and Godolphin was marked by a trail of lurid haze as they came out of the hills and on to the burning plains, with the thermometer bubbling like a pot of boiling water. Can you blame them if, when they struck the town, they painted it a gorgeous scarlet? But whether you blame them, or whether you don't cannot alter the fact that things moved when the teamsters came in. They could swear, and they could fight —and they never hesitated to do either.

I was told of a pioneer Bible Christian parson who unwisely left his cockatoo on his front verandah adjacent to a teamsters' camp. That bird developed a vocabulary which made its sojourn in the bosom of the clerical family impossible.

The day of days was Christmas Day. Terowie gave itself up to something wilder than a Western American ro deo. It was the annual sports day. There was no policeman to say you must or you mustn't, which was just as well — for the policeman. The piece de resistance was the trotting. These events began three miles out on the plains, and finished with whoops and wild dances in the main street. Children and women were barred. It was a man's day— at a time when men were men. Things were considered very flat if there were not twenty or so good, bare-fisted fights in the course of the afternoon and evening. Terowie had to provide its own excitement — and it did. Now it is staid and respectable, and inclined to blush when you mention these wild and woolly incidents.

The railway came at the beginning of the eighties. It was then that Terowie began to change. You must decide for yourself whether it was for better or for worse. By 1878 the line had reached Hallett, twenty miles to the south. Then it gradually pushed north until one day the school children of Terowie were marched out in great excitement to a hill three miles distant to get their first glimpse of a railway engine. Today those same children, those who are left of them, probably peruse the Commissioner's annual report with a frown, and devoutly wish they had never seen a railway.

Story Of Shebbear

Governments do crazy things. Take Terowie. If the Government in 1877 had had its way Terowie would have been known as Shebbear. I don't know what the word means, and I don't want to. All I know is that the man whs suggested it in place of Terowie was no euphemist. He is the sort of "artist-poet" who would paint a cedar door a dirty drab. I am more than glad that the people of the town kicked hard enough to make the Government change its intention, it is another proof of northern intelligence. But there is worse to follow.

Let me tell you the history of Shebbear. Mitchell's subdivision of his farm was such a profitable venture that it attracted attention in Ministerial quarters. Cabinet rubbed its hands, and said in effect. 'There's a pound or two to be made at Terowie; let's get after it." So, on the other side of the road from the private town laid out by Mitchell, the Government inaugurated another town, and called it Shebbear. The name was enough to damn it for all time— and it did. But not before the Government had collected a handsome sum from the sale of blocks by representations which, if the tales of the old residents are to be relied upon, would in these enlightened times justify the purchasers in invoking the aid of the courts to quash the sale.

You see handsome plans were prepared showing Shebbear as an important railway junction — something like Peterborough is today. Lines were shown branching off to Port Augusta, to Port Pirie, and to Broken Hill. It seemed that all one had to do was to buy land in Shebbear, and then sit back and watch the unearned increment mount. So lots of misled people bought blocks in Shebbear. They paid big prices. For fifty years they have been waiting for that unearned increment. Now they are beginning to suspect that they were "had." Shebbear is about the same size today as it was when these rosy pictures were painted by a gentleman with an imagination run wild. But it was not as wild as the people who bought those blocks. Today Shebbear exists only as a nightmare. It has been included in the private town of Terowie.

Gold At Ulooloo

From the earliest times gold has been found along the Ulooloo Creek. This is a streamlet a few miles to the south. Originally it was part of the station of Chewings and Hiles. It was in 1869 that a "rush" set in when the first reports got about of the find at Ulooloo. Since then prospectors have been almost continuously at work. There are some there now. But do not be misled. The find has never produced anything sensational. In fact I doubt whether the fossickers earn wages taking the field year in and year out.

The point is, where does this gold come from? That is what everybody wants to know. It is a curious coincidence that Chewings also owned the station at Teetulpa on which gold was found in 1885. The biggest parcel ever won from Ulooloo was £18,000 sent through the Hallett Post Office many years ago. It is recorded that in the early seventies the favorite pastime of the Chewings children on a Sunday was to go along this creek picking out the gold. They used to be rewarded by fair finds. They were great friends with the miners, who never objected to their taking whatever gold they found.

Chewings And Hiles

The story of [John] Chewings and [George] Hiles is one of the most interesting in the pastoral history of the State. I can only give it to you very briefly. They both came to South Australia in 1840 by the same, ship and from the same village in England. With William Dare they worked for ten years or so at whatever they could get, pooling their earnings, which were in the nature of sheep and cattle, as there was then very little money in the colony. Eventually their "wages" became so numerous as to be embarrassing, owing to the difficulty of finding agistment for the stock. So they set about finding a run. The trio swore themselves comrades for life, and comrades they always remained. They roamed the north with the blacks, thus becoming acquainted with the natural waterholes. At length they came to the springs which the blacks called Ookcongooree, and here they founded their station, later corrupting the name to Workongoree. This station, I should have explained, was first called Munjibbi.

It was some years later, when Chewings and Hiles dissolved the partnership, that they cut the station in two. Hiles retained Munjibbi, and Chewings called his half Workongoree. All three of these penniless young men succeeded in making fortunes. Hiles, for instance, died worth £190,000. Some day I may tell their story in full. It will be well worth reading.

Peter Waite

It was Terowie which witnessed the pastoral advent of that great-hearted and far-sighted star of the squatting firmament, Peter Waite — the man who bequeathed to the nation the Urrbrae acres, almost in the heart of the city, and endowed them as an experimental farm in the interests of agricultural science. Urrbrae has already justified itself and its public-spirited donor under the direction of that prince of agricultural scientists, Dr. A. E. V. Richardson. But Australia has not yet reached the fringe of the benefits this research station will confer as the years go by. Waite's gift was a bigger thing than most of us realise. Only posterity will appreciate it adequately.

Waite was a Scotsman, a Kirkcaldy man. He was not a pioneer pastoralist, like most of those we have encountered in these articles. He did not come to Australia until 1859. But his brother James was here, growing sheep on a station called Pandappa, close to Terowie — though there was no Terowie then. It was to this fact that South Australia owed the coming of Peter Waite, and it was on his brother's station that he gained the initial experience of sheep-farming which, in later years, he was to turn to such profitable account in conjunction with Sir Thomas Elder.

It was near Terowie, too, on the adjoining station of Paratoo, that the long association between Waite and Elder began. I am not going to tell you the life story of Peter Waite. He passed into the biggest pastoral run of all only as recently as 1922, and you know his record as well as I do. If you do not, and you wish to seek it, you will find it writ large in the minds of men, and in those pages of our current history —the newspapers. But I felt he was too important a figure in our pastoral life not to give him a thought as I passed through this country over which he once reigned as king.

NEXT WEEK : The Burra: Nobs and the Snobs.

Images

• • Broken Hill "express"in 1884. Mail coach for the Barrier leaving Terowie with passengers for the Silver City in the days of the boom.

  • Mr. E. M. Jenkins, Chairman, District Council.