No 39 Kangaroo Island more tales

This, the third and final article giving the amazing story of Kangaroo Island, mostly concerns the early struggles of the pioneers, and their emergence from a condition of semi-barbarism to the present day. A few observations are thrown in about what Kangaroo Island is — and what she, ought to be.

In the previous article I made several references to the shortage of provisions on the island in the days when it was emerging from its first surprise at finding itself a settlement.

The stores, and particularly all the trading were in the hands of the South Australian Company, and the Colonisation Commissioners. Like all monopolies they carried things with a high hand. You couldn't pick and choose about the stuff you wanted to buy. You had to take a certain quantity — and you were not always permitted to say what kind of stuff you would have. Here is an early price list left by one of the pioneers:—

Irish salt pork, wet out of the pickle, 9d per lb.; pickled bacon from Sydney, 2/4; Ham, 2/10; cheese (when there was any), 2/4; salt horse (sea men's junk), 6d. If you purchased 2 lb. of pork you were obliged also to take 6 lb. of junk, or they would not serve you at ail. They would not sell you flour unless you also bought uneatable biscuits. A kind of bird (presumably the mutton bird) purchased by the retailer for 1d., was sold for 10d. — and none but the strongest stomachs could endure them. There was no fresh water near the settlement. It had to be carted seven miles from Point Marsden, and cost 1d. per bucket. There were no vegetables, not even a potato, and no fresh meat, except wallaby. Is it surprising to read that "by the end of the week every one heartily repented having emigrated?"

The settlers were allotted huts 20 ft. distant from each other, but their gardens extended back as far as they individually liked to take them. The only contented man on the island, it is written, was the proprietor of a wine shop.

Those who know the reputation today of Kangaroo Island as a fisher man's paradise will be inclined to smile at a picture left of its earliest piscatorial history. Amongst the employes brought out by the company were two fishermen from Plymouth, and their wives. These men received £100 a year each, and were provided with expensive nets and fishing gear. But they never caught a fish, and the nets rotted on the beach. When they were asked to explain how it was that they never supplied any fish they said there was none to supply. "I stayed five months on the island," one writer records, "and during that time these men never took a fin."

"Exceedingly Lawless."

During the five months of settlement preceding the proclamation of South Australia the general discontent found expression in many small outbreaks for which, in my opinion, the petty tyranny of Samuel Stephens was responsible. At all events the province was only a few days old when Governor Hindmarsh received an astonishing letter from Stephens alleging that things on the island were about as bad as they could be. He referred to "the exceedingly lawless state of society in Kangaroo Island, and the imminent peril to which both the lives and the property of His Majesty's subjects resident there are exposed."

Busy as he was, the province not yet six days old, and Adelaide itself non-existent, the Governor was so alarmed by the picture presented by Stephens, that then and there he appointed two commissioners (George Stevenson and Thomas Bewes Strangways) to proceed to the island to investigate. Their report throws a vivid light on Stephens in relation to the company's employes.

In his letter to the Governor, Stephens had declared that the lawless condition of the settlement was due to the "injudicious and illegal sale of ardent spirits at the store of the Colonisation Commissioners." This was the first point the commissioners investigated. They found the com plaint referred to a Sunday morning outbreak on September 6, 1836, the day following the marriage of Stephens. Thomas Gilbert, who subsequently be came South Australia's first Post master-General, was in charge of the stores. He denied that he had sold any spirits to the settlers, but said he had sent by a servant seven quarts of rum and some supplies to Warland (Wallen) and Day, "respectable settlers," in exchange for vegetables and fresh provisions, and that it was possible that the employe had disposed of the spirits. This the servant denied, and he added that that day Stephens himself had given rum to all his men to celebrate his marriage. The Commissioners found against Stephens.

They not only criticised the "extravagant language of his letter" to the Governor, but they found he himself had been responsible for the discontent of which he complained by raising the prices of commodities to his employes. This section of the finding is worth quoting: —

"Among the causes of the dissatisfaction was the determination of Mr. Stephens as manager of the company in deducting portion, of the wages (viz., 10/ out of 16/ a week) from such of the servants of the company to whom advances had been made, as should refuse to receive in payment notes issued by him as manager of the company; and to pay no wages at all to those not indebted to the company who should refuse the notes so issued."

"Socking" The Employes

Later they found that "the rise in prices which took place seven weeks previously greatly aggravated the discontent. The price of flour was advanced from 2d. to 3d. lb., brown bread from 2½d. to 3½d. lb., and white biscuit from 3¼d. to 4½d. lb., the impressions of the servants of the company being that they should be supplied with provisions on terms little above the English prices. The reasons given by Mr. Stephens do not appear sufficient to justify a step so certain to create discontent among those whom it was so much his duty and interest (even at some pecuniary sacrifice) to keep tranquil and contented."

That Stephens at this period was in some fear of his life is suggested by a letter he addressed to Captain Lipson and Lieutenant Finniss, calling on them as "officers of the King" to assist him in maintaining order. This letter is curiously addressed to "Captain Lipson, R.N., and Lieutenat [sic] Finniss, Banks of the Morgan, Kangaroo Island." The Morgan was a local stream presumably named after Captain Morgan, of the Duke of York. Today it is the Cygnet.

On the subject of supplying drink the finding was "that a certain degree of demoralisation had existed, due to ardent spirits, but not from the Colonisation Commissioners' store, but that Stephens from time to time had sold spirits from the company's store to servants of the company in quantities from a dram-glass to a gallon, and that the greater number of instances of intoxication and disturbance on the island had been in consequence of Mr. Stephens's own imprudence in sanctioning so disgraceful a practice, and taking no decisive steps to put a stop to it while in his power to do so."

Secret Of The Island

Here is a story of mystery— of suspected murder. The bush holds the secret, and has never given it up. It concerns the curious disappearance of Dr. Slater and Mr. Osborne in November, 1836.

Slater and Osborne were passengers by the Africaine. During the voyage out they became fast friends. When, on November 1, 1836, the Africaine reached Kangaroo Island in the vicinity of Murrell's Boat Harbor, Slater and Osborne, with several others, prevailed on Captain Duff to put them ashore in a boat, with provisions for two days. The idea was to walk along the northern shore of the island, and pick up the ship in Nepean Bay, 50 miles distant.

This expedition comprised Slater, Osborne, Baggs, Warner, Robert Fisher, and another man named Charles Nantes. The had not proceeded far when they became aware that they were up against a proposition of considerable difficulty— heat, lack of water impenetrable bush, and trackless wilds. But, the ship having sailed, there was nothing to do but to push on as best they could for the Bay.

Instead of taking two days to do the journey, it took ten— ten days of the most awful suffering imaginable. The bush was so thick that they had to cut through it with hatchets. Water could not be found, except small pools unfit for consumption, which made the explorers ill. Their food gave out, and they had to exist on the blood of seagulls which they shot when they could. They wore the soles off their boots, and when they reached Nepean Bay their feet were naked, sore and bleeding.

But only a small remnant reached the Bay. The others were left stranded on various portions of the route. On the tenth day Fisher, Baggs and Warner, more dead than alive, struggled into the settlement. They reported they had left Nantes exhausted a day's journey behind, and Osborne and Slater further back in the bush, they having refused to complete the journey.

Replying to questions about the condition of Slater and his friend, Fisher said they had knocked up several times during the trying or deal, and finally had begged the others to go ahead, and to send back help. This they had agreed to do, after leaving the pair well provisioned. But they were unable to explain how it was they had been able to leave provisions when they admitted that for days they had had none. It was this which gave rise to the first suspicions that there were gaps in the story that could not be bridged.

Nantes was discovered next day without difficulty by a search party sent to hunt for the missing men. But, notwithstanding an intensive search, in which "Fireball" Bates and a black woman assisted, nothing was ever again seen of Slater and Osborne.

What happened to them?

No one will ever know now. It was not long before sinister rumors began to circulate. The only men who could throw light on the mystery were Fisher and Nantes — but they never did. One day J. M. Skipper over heard Fisher and Nantes quarrelling. He heard Nantes say—

"If you say much I will out with what was done on the island."

To this Fisher answered— "You can't do that without breaking your oath."

Since that affair of ninety-odd years ago, several mysterious skeletons have been found in the island bush. But none of them have ever satisfactorily been proved to belong to the missing men.

Grave Of Mrs. Beare

In the abandoned pioneer cemetery of the island I stood beside a slab marking the resting-place of Mrs. Lucy Ann Beare, the first white woman to die in South Australia. Local tradition is that she died of a broken heart, due to the general hopelessness of the position of the settlers in the first year of the State's existence. It is quite probable that for once local tradition is right. The slab is inscribed: —

"In loving memory of our mother, Lucy Ann Beare, wife of Thomas Hudson Beare, who died 3rd of September, 1837, aged 34 years. Arrived by the barque Duke of York, 27th July, 1836."

Only a few of the graves in this God's acre bear headstones. For the most part time has obliterated all evidence that the plot houses the bones of those who came twelve thousand odd miles over tempestuous seas in tiny ships to found a province. America honors the pilgrims of the Mayflower. South Australia ignores the pioneers of the Duke of York. There should be a national monument there to commemorate these courageous dead.

I asked to see the register of burials. I was told there wasn't one; or, if there had been, it was lost. So the historic dead are forgotten by us who have inherited the fruits of their work.

House Of Stephens

Thinking along these lines, I climbed through a barbed wire fence on to section 1— the first section surveyed in the province It is now part of the farm of Mr. J. H. Carter. It was here, on a cliff overlooking the bay, that Samuel Stephens had his house. Stephens, in the days before the arrival of Governor Hindmarsh, was the great 'Pooh Bah' of the infant colony. He was the first manager of the South Australian Company, and the first of the adult colonists to set foot on the soil of South Australia. Although I never was an admirer of Stephens, I cannot ignore the fact that he was the most influential figure in the pioneer life of the baby settlement. I wanted to see his house — that edifice which was the pride and admiration of the immigrants because it was the only white stone (mostly mud) house in a land of wooden humpies and canvas tents.

What did I find where there ought to have been at least an obelisk?

Just a hole in the ground— the remains of the cellar — choked with bricks and debris.

I wanted to be alone to think things over. I wanted to climb down the steep cliffs on to the sand to study the terrain— to reconstruct, if possible, the unique scene of that July morn ing when the stores of the Duke of York were scattered higgledy-piggledy over the beach like the ordered con fusion of a Gallipoli landing. So, when my guides had left me for the day, I wandered back alone over the mile or so of seafront which separates the town of Kingscote from the old landing-place.

Site Of The Landing

Now I am writing this sitting near the ruins of the old South Australian Company's jetty— if such a name can be given to the four or five rotting uprights which are all that remain of the flimsy structure. Perhaps before the State celebrates its centenary in 1936 even this slight but definite relic of the landing will have disappeared and nothing will then remain to mark the spot where our first settlers, South Australia's pilgrim fathers, actually set foot on the soil of their adopted land. Then there will be activity to discover the traditional place— and in years to come we will be blamed for not put ting a beacon on the actual site while there was still the opportunity. Here, surely, is an urgent call to the Historic Memorials Committee to mark in some appropriate manner the spot where the province was really born.

Before me stretches the wide expanse of Nepean Bay, its waters a deep Mediterranean blue. Behind me rise the cliffs up which our forefathers swarmed and sweated, now covered with the rank growth of nearly a hundred years. Just round a slight bend, set in a clump of trees where you would not find them unless you knew that they were there, are the ruins of the State's first post office. The walls have almost disappeared, and ti-tree and gum grow where the feet of the original postmaster dragged across the floor to sort the letters which had just come in by the latest sailing ship to arrive from "home."

I was poking among the debris when an old fisherman happened along the beach, his catch strung on a piece of string. He eyed me suspiciously at first, and then he smiled. He must have divined my interest.

"Ay," he said, "it's very interesting. When I was a lad I knew a man who lived here, and took part in the rush to get the first letters that came after the immigrants arrived. The whole settlement—it wasn't very big — went mad with joy at the thought of news from the old land. They were so ex cited that they couldn't wait for the boats to come ashore. They pulled off their boots and stockings, lifted up their petticoats— those of them who were them — and waded out, shouting and laughing, to meet the boats and drag them ashore."

Now the beach which witnessed this scene is silent and deserted; its surface covered by great patches of slimy mud, splashed with plots of pig-face. It is far removed from the life of Kingscote, and few come here — only now and again, some historically minded idiot like myself.

But when you get to Kangaroo Island there is no one to tell you these things, or to point out these places to you. The old residents are indifferent— except an odd one here and there. Yet the island reeks with romance. It is country with extra ordinary attractions — material and mental. But it hasn't the slightest idea of making use of them.

An Island Of Dreams

The fact of the matter is that too many of the islanders are asleep. They have, perhaps, the most wonderful and the most natural tourist resort in the Commonwealth. Their attitude is, "If the tourists like to come, let them come." They do not raise a finger to attract them, nor to entertain them when they are there. They know all these extraordinary tales I have been telling you, but they make no effort to interest visitors in them, nor to show them the spots where history was made. They have wonderful scenery and more wonderful fishing, and it is at your disposal — provided you seek out the places yourself.

There are just a handful of active spirits on the island who would correct these drawbacks if they could. But they have given up trying. "There is no community spirit," they complained to me. And they were right.

But the fault is not entirely with the islanders. If I had to apportion the blame I do not think I would over look the shipping companies. They, too, it seems to me, have been equally bitten by the bug of somnolence. If you want to find out anything about Kangaroo Island as a tourist resort you have to hunt for it yourself. They have the information on their shelves, as it were, but unless you ask for it as you would for a pound of butter it is not available.

Prospective tourists should not have to seek information about Kangaroo Island, or any other place which claims to cater for holiday-makers and visitors to the State. They should not have to wade through back numbers of the newspapers with a magnifying glass to find out when or how boats leave. They should be regularly bombarded with literature on the subject. Fishing for tourists is like fishing for fish— you must try and try again if you want to make a haul.

The island has everything in its favor except accessibility and publicity, if our American cousins had a place like that there wouldn't be a person in the United States who did not know about it. They would send out pamphlets by the cartload. Every hotel in the country would be deluged. But if you want information about Kangaroo Island today you have to go hunting for it. Before you go hunting you have got to think of it, and how, I ask you, can you think of a place you never hear anything about?

Another want is organisation. It's not much use dumping people down in a place they do not know, and let ting them shift for themselves. You must show them where they can get fish— by the cartload if they want it —or game, or scenery, or historic spots, picnicking, hunting, bathing, or any other blessed thing which makes for healthy recreation. Some day the Island is going to be the sanatorium of the Commonwealth— but a lot of people have got to wake up first.

One of the live men of the island is Mr. Arthur Daw. He was the owner of those three historic cottages 'Faith,' 'Hope,' and 'Charity.' But they are no more. 'Faith' has been demolished; 'Hope' remains, but it has been metamorphosed into a modern dwelling place, and you would scarcely recognise in 'Charity' the staid old lady in brick and mortar you knew a few years ago.

It was largely through the instrumentality of Mr. Daw that I saw so much of the island and heard many of its tales. And there are others to whom my acknowledgments are due: —Messrs. R. Wheaton (chairman of the Kingscote District Council), J. H. Carter, W. W. Cook, E. Burgess, B. H. Bell, and V. Boothby. There was another, too, Mr. Roland Snelling, who told me about hard times in the back country nearly eighty years ago. But, in the short interim between my visit and the publication of this article. Mr. Snelling has passed into the great silent land of the unknown.

Pioneer Battles

I motored out to Middle River, approximately 45 miles from Kingscote. The property there is owned by Bell Brothers. Almost at the front door of the homestead is a row of four tombstones— and behind them is a tragic story of pioneer days.

The Middle River country was pioneered by Henry Snelling between seventy and eighty years ago. There were few people on the island then. The country was largely impenetrable scrub. For that matter, a lot of it still is. Only those who have had experience of these miles of tangled growth have any idea of the difficulties it presents.

It was in such country that the pioneer Snelling fresh from Yankalilla, established his home. There were no shops. Provisions had to be brought from Adelaide— and nobody knew when they would arrive. It was only when a sailing ship was passing on its way to Port Lincoln that it would call in to land supplies. There was one period when the family was without sugar or flour for three months. For the whole of that time they practically lived on wallaby liver. If they wanted to post a letter they had to walk over mountainous country without either roads or tracks for 42 miles to do it.

But the greatest fear of all was sickness. There was no help at hand — no doctor, no medicine. Typhoid fever broke out. The whole family of ten went down to it. Three of them died— and those tombstones I mentioned commemorate those days of horror. The father had to make the coffins and bury his children.

That is a typical story of the troubles of the early settlers.

Here is another. At Western River, only nine miles from where the foregoing tragedy occurred, lived a man and his wife in a shack. The man was engaged in building a boat. He was taken ill, and, there being no medical aid at hand, he died. His wife dug a large hole in front of the fireplace, and there she buried him, using the sofa on which he died as a coffin. She then walked over 50 miles through dense scrub to Kingscote to report the matter.

Romance Of John Stokes

On the farm of Bell Brothers at Stokes Bay I stood on the slight mound which marks the site of the hut of John Stokes. I suppose no fiction ever written presents a stranger story than the life romance of John Stokes and his brother Harry. John was a sailor who was borne [sic] in England somewhere about 1814. Shortly before setting out on one of his voyages he became engaged to a charming girl named Margaret —. They were to be married on John's return from abroad.

But several years passed, and no word came from John. Means of communication in those early times were not as easy as they are today. There was no telegraph, and no postal service as we know it now. Margaret waited, but seemingly in vain. Eventually she married John's younger brother Harry.

Not very long after the marriage John turned up to claim his bride. Finding he had lost her, he went away again, and no one knew where he had gone. He was given up for lost.

The scene now moves to Kangaroo Island, in the days before there was any ordered settlement. It was thither John went, when the place was infested with pirates, sealers, and run away sailors, such as I described in the first article. He picked out a lonely, inaccessible spot overlooking the sea (now Stokes Bay), and there he cleared a patch of ground for a garden, and built himself a two-roomed hut of broom bush, with a stone chimney. There he grew his corn and vegetables, and you may see to this day the site of the tiny farm— for he grew only sufficient for his own needs. He used to harness himself to a harrow, and draw it horse-fashion. He cut the crop with a sickle, threshed it with a flail, and ground it into flour in a small mill. He held no intercourse with his fellow-men.

But Fate had not yet finished with John Stokes. One day in 1837, just after the island had been settled under the colonisation scheme, he found it necessary to go to the new settlement at Nepean Bay (Kingscote). A sailing ship was coming into port. As an old sailor John watched the ship with interest. When it had berthed he went aboard. He was accosted by the first officer. The two men stared at each other in amazement.

The officer was John's younger brother Harry!

Harry and Margaret settled on the island, where they lived for many years. Margaret is buried in the old Kingscote cemetery. John returned to his little clearing at Stokes Bay. He lived there until he was an old man, still leading the life of a recluse. Finally, when he was becoming helpless, he was taken against his will to the destitute.

There is a story in the manner of his going. It was told me by Mr. Bell, whose father took part in the capture of the old man. Trooper Lawrence, of Yankalilla, was instructed to remove Stokes to the mainland. But Stokes was not to be caught. He barricaded himself in his hut whenever the officer same in sight. Meanwhile the section enclosing Stoke's land had become the property of Bell Brothers. The trooper enlisted the aid of the Bell boys to watch the old man, and to inform the police whenever he left his hut. One day John Stokes went to his garden patch, some distance from the house, and before he could get back he was intercepted by Lawrence, and carried off to Adelaide. The old hut of John Stokes no longer exists.

Frenchman's Rock

From the deck of the steamer as it lies at Hog Bay wharf you can see the dome of the covering which protects Frenchman's Rock, and on the beach the springs which brought the historic carving into being, The story is fairly well known, but I will re capitulate it briefly.

Towards the end of 1802 Flinders had his historic meeting with the French explorer Baudin near the Bluff at Victor Harbour, and called the place Encounter Bay in consequence. Among the subjects which the two navigators discussed was the scarcity of water. Flinders told Baudin of the existence of the springs on the beach at Hog Bay.

In January, 1803, Baudin decided to make for Hog Bay to replenish supplies. The crew were sent ashore with cask, and while they were filling them at the springs the ship's carpenter whiled away the time by carving with a marling spike the following inscription on a rock on the beach: — "Expedition de decouverte par le Commandant Baudin sur Le Geographe, 1803." A few yew years ago steps were taken to preserve the rock by erecting a concrete dome over it.

Images:

• Frenchman's Rock, Hog Bay, commemorates the visit of the explorer, Baudin, to the island in 1803. Phillips photo.

• Today tangled scrub grows thickly amid the ruins of South Australia's first post office at Nepean Bay, where the pioneers of 1836 were wont to wait impatiently for news from “home.”

• Graves of the Snelling children at Middle River. They died from typhoid far away from help. The father made the coffins, and buried them.

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