No 4 Morgan

Morgan has two most interesting townsmen in Mr. Fred Williams, the chairman of the council, and Mr. A. S. Dunk, the secretary. The former does not care to own up to how many years he has watched the waters of the Murray go by. But he remembers Morgan when Landseer's store and a shanty pub where the sole landmarks of civilisation on the river bend, when the settlers had to go to Weston's Flat for their mail, when the blacks used to have a "night out" with the white man's liquor, and divorce themselves by the simple expedient of knocking their lubras on the head with a waddy, and threaten to do the same to the whites if they interfered. Finally, he remembers the rows of natives, and white men, too, chained to trees on the river bank where the morgue now stands, because there was no room for them in the local gaol. A man whose memory goes back as far as that is no infant.

Mr. Dunk is the son of the retired Murray navigator, Captain Dunk. He told me how sorry he was that his father was in hospital. I was sorry, too, because, if there is anyone who knows the nooks and crannies of the Murray better than this old skipper of its waters, I should like to meet that person.

Mr. Williams and I did a good deal of prowling together. In fact, I do not think there was a corner in Morgan that he did not take me to. if some of the interesting people he wanted me to meet were not at home that was my misfortune, but not his fault. But I met quite a number and heard many tales of the days before the railways came to make Morgan as ordinary as any other town. Your modern railway is about as prosaic a thing as I know— a ruthless destroyer of the romance of the mail coach, with its steaming horses, old fashioned "whips," and the ever present thrill of an encounter with bushrangers.

Charlie Schell

Talking of mail coaches, reminds me that Mr. Williams introduced me to "Charlie" Schell, one of the fast diminishing band of early-day drivers who made the coaching history of Australia. My only complaint against Mr Schell was that he was far too modest when it came to talking of his own achievements with the reins. But other people were not so reticent. They told me that Charlie would drive anything on four legs. I believe that there were occasions when he drove horses on two legs. He is one of those men who regard a horse in disgust unless it is trying to look at the stars from under its hind-quarters. Charlie likes a horse with "zip" in it. He can have them all as far as I am concerned.

But the fact remains that Charlie Schell was one of the best-known drivers on South Australian roads I'll bet you anything you like that Sir Sidney Kidman knows him— and I'm taking a pot shot. Years ago Charlie ran the coach between Terowie and Silverton. He dropped into the game accidentally to oblige a friend. He took over the reins for a fortnight! That fortnight was one of the longest on record. It did not end for twenty years! In all that time Charlie was never stuck up by bandits, and he never had an accident. He is proud of that record. Charlie is blunt, and honest and truthful, as witness this incident when he was engaged to drive the Terowie coach.

"What will you do if bushrangers try to rob her Majesty's mail?" his employer asked him.

"Let 'em have the —— thing and get for my life." replied Charlie.

"Shake hands," invited the boss "you're the only truthful blighter on the run."

Charlie's memory goes back a long way— far longer than you would think to look at his thin, sun-tanned, youthful face and lean figure. He remembers Remark when there was no Renmark — just a collection of ten or fourteen tents and not a single building. He remembers the blacks coming down the Murray and congregating about Morgan in crowds of 600 to 700, and making the nights hideous with their noise as, painted and decorated, they held their corroborees on the flats near the river. "There were no made roads then," he told me. I shuddered. If they called the things I risked my life on the other day "made roads," then the less I know about the roads of Charlie's day the better.

"What was your most exciting experience in coaching?" I asked him.

"Crowding thirteen passengers into a coach built for seven," he answered.

There was at least one occasion, however, when Charlie drove a team of outlaws. He had to be persuaded to tell the story. They were a mob of half-broken colts that none of the drivers would touch. The proposition was put to Charlie, and he said he was willing to try anything once. Twenty people — an enormous crowd for those days — came to see Charlie put those horses into the coach. The ostlers wouldn't go near them. I cannot tell you in horsemen's language just what gadgets were employed in the process, but he got them there, and he set off for Renmark. He got into the town sitting on top of the coach. The maddened brutes had kicked away the front of the vehicle, including the driver's box.

But they had met their master. For many years Mr. Schell drove the coach between Renmark and Tareena (N.S.W.). The distance of 110 miles was covered in 18 hours with five teams of horses. He drove the entire distance. It was not uncommon on getting into town to find he would have to go straight away again with a special coach. On one occasion he drove without a break for a fortnight, trying to hold the job for a comrade who had fallen sick. It was wasted effort. When the mate recovered he threw up the job.

History In Four Lines

Towards evening the clouds came up black and a fine drizzle set in. A keen wind swept the plains and came down the river. Mr. Williams put a match to the shavings in the fireplace, and we settled down comfortably to swap yarns. I like these heart to heart seances. They usually yield good results.

Mr. Sam Mclntosh, former Director of Irrigation, blew in, and we were all old friends together. Mr. Mclntosh was on his way home to Berri, where he now has a very fine property. We talked farms and farming, irrigation, sheep, and currants. Then Mr. Williams told us of a recent acquisition of his— a farm property with a doleful history of failure. When he went to take possession he found these four lines scrawled in chalk across the door of the farmhouse: —

Could the story of that place have been more graphically expressed in a complete volume? Those four lines were not only the history of the farm in question. They give the record of a great area of the country on the Adelaide side of the Murray.

It is pastoral land, pure and simple. For years farmers tried to raise wheat there. It was a heartbreaking experience. Eventually the land reverted to sheep in smaller holdings than formerly. Today the failures of the wheat farmers are recorded in the number of abandoned farmhouses one sees dotted about the countryside. Wool is still the great industry of this section of the Murray. More of it is produced in the district now than in the days when the Nor'-West Bend enfolded the whole of this territory in its vast grip.

In the early days heaven could have offered no more alluring picture to our black brother than did the country around the Nor'-West Bend. It was a paradise of fish, fowl, and game. He could eat till he busted. Even today immense heaps of shells testify to the gigantic feasts which took place along the banks of the Murray in the days when life was life, and the spirit of adventure filled the land.

The Black Woman's Head

It would be inappropriate not to mention the historic Nor'-West Bend station of the fifties. Today it is a mere shadow of its former self. Then it was an area of 2,000 square miles, owned by that indomitable old battler, Philip Levi, and his brother-in-law, Charles Campbell. But first a word about Levi himself.

Philip Levi.

He represents the type of pioneer pastoralist who no longer exists. He came to Australia in in 1838, at the age of 16. His remains lie in the Jewish section of the cemetery at West terrace. One of his first pastoral holdings was the land on which the thickly populated suburbs of Prospect and Walkerville stand today. The Nor' West Bend was only one of a number of large holdings in his name. He amassed a big fortune, and then lost it.

But he was a man of the highest integrity, and when he failed through a combination of circumstances beyond his control, he saw to it that later he paid 20/ in the pound. There was no repudiation about the old timers. When you pass the Imperial Hotel at the corner of King William and Grenfell streets, you will know that the hostelry occupies the site of Levi's offices. At the time to which I refer the place was known as Levi's Corner.

When he first came to South Australia Levi was an officer in the Customs, but he gave up this occupation for the more profitable one of pastoralist. It was at this juncture that he went to New South Wales with a party to purchase sheep, which they travelled overland. This was the expedition which was so savagely attacked by the blacks near the Rufus. That incident shows the dangers against which these pioneers had to contend. I do not intend to retell the tale of that ferocious battle, but there is one interesting aspect of it which is worth mentioning.

Amongst the savages was one man with a particularly long beard, who threw himself into the thick of the fray. His fury against the whites was so diabolical that the overlanders took particular pains to "pot" him. After the natives had been dispersed the cattle men went over the ground especially to have a look at the corpse of this blood-thirsty warrior. What do you think they found? The body of a bearded woman! Levi held her head while another man cut it from the body. They knew that their story would be disbelieved if they told it in the city without proof, so they brought the head to Adelaide as a gruesome relic of the encounter. [Ed. see above: "But he was a man of the highest integrity"].

Nor' West Bend was a sheep and cattle run. In 1860 it passed from the hands of Levi to O. B. Armytage, whose manager was Donald McLean. This circumstance is worth recording, be cause McLean was the first man in South Australia to put up a fence. Squatters came from hundreds of miles round to see this fence, which was composed of posts 3 ft. high, with strands of wire and wooden droppers. In 1887 the bulk of the old station was cut up into 1,000 acre blocks.

Before leaving the Nor' West Bend run, there is one other story connected with it which might be interesting. On the opposite side of the river, known as Coppin's Corner, is a red sandstone hill. Here, years ago, hundreds of natives died from a mysterious disease. The place was shunned by those who survived, and the bodies were left lying where they died. Drift sand, the result of storms, covered them eventually, but even now bones of the victims are occasionally uncovered.

Morgan's 'Teeth Industry"

Where do the dentists get their teeth? I cannot answer that question in regard to the profession in general. But I can tell you that some dentists have got some teeth at Morgan, and that the teeth were originally owned by certain aboriginal gentlemen whose habit it was to wander in the nude through the Australian bush, I don't know how many years ago. The chairman of the district council, Mr. Williams, told me that. In the days before Morgan was, black brother loved to wander along the river, where food was plentiful, and he could gorge to the point of "busting." Then the mysterious epidemic I have mentioned, swept across the country, and he died in hundreds. His bones were left bleaching in the sun until Time and sand-drifts gave them natural burial. Nowadays it is not uncommon for curious whites, poking amongst the sand, to do the "Alas, poor Yorrick" stunt with the skull of some old-time warrior accidentally kicked up from the loose sand on the other side of the Murray. Mr. Williams said years ago certain dentists were often seen among these sand-hills, searching for the tough teeth to be got from the skeletons. I understand that the profession has grown more respectable with the years, and this sort of thing does not happen now. Perhaps the supply of molars gave out, or the Americans got to hear of Morgan and cut the price of teeth accordingly. However, there is no demand for Morgan teeth at the present day. Another country industry strangled!

Morgan Or Korkoranna?

I wonder if you will permit me a short indulgence to relieve myself of the attack of mental indigestion which always comes to me when I approach the subject of Australian nomenclature. I can't help it. It seems to me that in the matter of naming places the blacks have shown more intelligence than the whites. Why Morgan? Just because Sir William Morgan happened to be Chief Secretary when the railway was opened in 1878! Soon afterwards he became Premier. Prior to that it was the Nor'-West Bend — infinitely preferable to Morgan. It meant something definite. It described the place. That was what the blacks did — named localities in accordance with some appropriate feature.

Sir William Morgan may have been quite a nice fellow. Probably he was. That was no justification for perpetuating his name in a Murray town. There are a lot of politicians whose names we would like to forget—and there are a lot of towns bearing the names of politicians. It's a bad habit which should be stopped. I believe in native names ninety nine times out of a hundred. In the case of Morgan, there was no lack of them. The aboriginals had several. One of them was Korkoranna for Morgan itself, another Koolpoola for the opposite flats, and another was Coerabko, which, I believe, meant "meeting place of the tribe." I would vote for any of these three in preference to Morgan.

NEXT WEEK Morgan (concluded) and Eudunda

Images

• • Mr. Fred Williams

  • WOOL is still the chief product of the Morgan area. Well-laden barges coming down the river with South Australia's prosperity on board.

  • Shipping at the Anchorage at Morgan. These boats ply their calling on the Murray and bring down wool from the Darling. They are one of the picturesque features of the river's commerce —Government photo.