No 44 Victor Harbour

When you talk about Encounter Bay today you need to define just what part of the territory to which you refer. For Encounter Bay proper extends from Rosetta Head (the Bluff) to Younghusband's Peninsula (Lake Alexandrina), and takes in Victor, Elliot, and the Murray Mouth. You see, when Encounter Bay was named there wasn't any Victor or any Elliot — there wasn't even any South Australia. There was just this great unknown country which the feet of white men had never trod when, that calm evening in April, 1802, Matthew Flinders in the "Investigator," and Nicholas Baudin in "Le Geographe," exchanged those historic civilities which led to Flinders be stowing the title of Encounter Bay on the site of the rencontre. I am not going to give you the well-known story of that meeting, but if you have the energy to climb to the top of the Bluff you will find it recorded there on a granite monument.

Then a few years later the colonists came, and their definition of Encounter Bay was the wide one I have given you above. They couldn't say they were going to Victor or to Elliot, because those places did not exist as names. They just said they were going to Blenkinsop's fishery, or the whaling station, or the Murray Mouth. But nowadays when we speak of Encounter Bay we invariably refer to that part of the country lying between the Inman River and the Bluff. It is in this sense that I will deal with Encounter Bay in this article.

Seventy Years Ago

In this year of grace 1933, everyone knows Victor Harbour as one of our most popular tourist resorts, and one of the largest southern towns. They also know Encounter Bay, two miles to the south, as a small settlement forming a kind of suburb to the larger town. Today when we speak of Victor Harbour, we invariably include Encounter Bay. Geographical boundaries have ceased to have any distinction as regards these two places. But things were not always thus. There was a time when there was a very sharp division between the two places— so sharp indeed that there was no means of communication between them, other than a walk through the bush. In those days— and I am talking now of the middle sixties— Encounter Bay was the big centre, and Victor the struggling settlement. The population of the Bay was 810; of Victor, 150. In those days, too, there was a promising copper mine near the Bluff, and Victor had two hotels which still exist - the Crown and the Victor. As late as 1866 Port Victor comprised three stores and eighteen dwelling houses, one chapel, and the two public houses. That ought to give you an idea of the relative progress made by these towns in the last seventy years.

Whaling Days

But, to go back to the beginning of things, back to 1837 when the nucleus of Victor Harbour as we know it today was the small whaling settlement near the Bluff. There was no settlement in the vicinity except for the hideous barn like structures, which served as the whaling station. Viewed from the sea the landscape was picturesque in the extreme, "a wild, but beautiful, park, which reminded one of the domain of an English noble."

Although time has invested the old whaling station with the glamor of romance, there was nothing at all picturesque about the ancient eye-sore —unless there is romance and picturesqueness in a horde of dirty unshaved, practically undressed and unkempt whalers, whose life was more filthy and more savage than that of the blacks about them. But if they knew nothing of the maxim which places cleanliness next to godliness, they were men of courage and daring, who took their lives in their hands every time they put to sea in search of the curious mammal which swallowed Jonah. And that was pretty often.

Nowadays if a whale is seen in the vicinity of the South Australian coast the circumstance becomes "news" in the Northcliffian sense, and the papers give the matter prominence. But in the thirties and the forties the great cetacea was such a frequent visitor that sightseers paid no more attention to it than we give to a passing motor car— except those, of course, whose job it was to turn the blubberly thing into coin of the realm.

Perhaps I may be able to reconstruct for you a typical whale hunt of those days. From the top of the Bluff (properly called Rossetta Head, after the wife of George Fife Angas), watchers were posted at an elevation of 317 feet above sea level. Things were slack in the little community. Save for those whose duty it was to scan the sea in search of the playful giant, the whalers disposed themselves lazily about the bunk houses — playing cards, playing dice, swapping lies, sleeping, doing anything but work.

But things changed like magic when the signal was hoisted that the spouting mammoth was in sight. Crying "There she spouts!" men ran for their boats like a fireman springs for his engine when the gong goes. In a few moments eight to ten strange craft were speeding madly towards a common goal. There was intense rivalry to be the first to drive the harpoon home.

Ten boats, filled with eager and excited whalers, and an indolent floating mass of oil and blubber!

Presently, one boat got within range, and she eased up as the harpooner poised ready to strike. The moment called for cool and unerring aim. The long dart hissed through the air. The whalers poised alertly, every eye fixed on the flying needle and the whale. It was a moment of uncertainty that seemed eternal. It carried life or death. What would the monster do? Would it smash the boat? Would it dive into the deep, taking the frail craft and its human cargo with it? A man stood ready to cut the rope if the need arose. The dart struck, and the rope tightened. The surprised mammal gave a long shiver before it went tearing through the sea, dragging the boat after it at express speed. Presently the harpoon came out of the great mass of soft flesh. It had missed a vital spot, and failed to hold. But by now another boat was near enough to strike. So the game went on all through the afternoon. A test of endurance between man and beast -- both fighting for their lives.

One hour. Two hours. Three hours! Both sides grew weary with the struggle.

But the odds were too great for the wounded monster. Harpoon after harpoon was burled in its oily flesh. One or two sank deeper than the rest, piercing some vital organ. The sea was dyed blood red as slowly the brute capitulated. Its lashings grew fainter and fainter. Finally they ceased. The whale was dead. Cautiously a boat drew alongside, uncertain as to whether there might not still be a death-dealing blow left in the quivering carcase. Satisfied that all was well, a man was put "aboard." He drove an iron spike carrying the Union Jack into the unresisting flesh. Then all the boats were hitched to the dead thing, and it was towed ashore, its arrival there being greeted with shouts of joy from the band of blacks who had watched the chase expectantly, knowing that it meant a feast for them.

Lord Mayor's Banquet

A Lord Mayor's banquet is supposed to be something out of the ordinary in the way of culinary perfection. That has not been my experience but we’ll let it pass. In the case of the dusky Lord Mayor of the Encounter Bay tribe, however, nice, juicy junks of stinking green fat were certainly a delectable dish to put before a king. So, as the whalers cut out great blocks of still quivering blubber from the carcase of the whale, they tossed equally great chunks of unwanted refuse into the sea. Here they were greedily pounced on and carried ashore by the niggers, who swam easily, pushing their burdens in front of them. There being much more of the oily mess available than the most voracious savage could accommodate in his somewhat elastic anatomy, runners were dispatched to the four corners of the Bay, and even further, to invite all and sundry to a feast.

And what a feast! Unhampered by the restrictions imposed by "Lady Blank's Dictionary of Etiquette for the Use of Young Men and Women Entering Society: Price 6d.," black brother sat around the fire in his hundreds, snatching lumps of fat almost raw from the embers, and stuffing them into his mouth by the fist-full in a sort of impromptu competition to see who could gulp down the most per minute. And when he could gulp no more he lay where he was, rubbing his protruding tummy and feeling very much like white men do the morning after the night before— except that the pain was in a different place. Soon the country for yards around was littered by prostrate and groaning forms. The scene resembled the sort of battlefield one sees at the talkies — with the figures all neatly laid out as if they had numbered off by the right before offering themselves to the enemy as targets.

How The Natives Duelled

Talking about battles reminds me! In 1837 two natives fell out about a woman. They decided to fight. There usually is a female at the bottom of all such encounters — savage or civilised. It's a curious thing that if men quarrel about money they go to law; but if they get at loggerheads over a woman they pull off their coats, and endeavor to spoil each other's manly beauty. I suppose we never will get rid of the streak of primitiveness which connects us with our Simian ancestors. The particular fight I have in mind took place on the beach at Encounter Bay, and I am moved to mention it because it gives a good idea of how the niggers fought their duels— rather a masterly kind of chivalry in my opinion.

First the beach was invaded by a highly excited, jabbering mass of ebony humanity, who might have been discussing the decisions of last Saturday's football umpire, or the morality of Larwood's bodyline bowling, so freely did they let themselves go. They capered, and gesticulated, and jeered at each other until presently two powerful giants sprang into the open, and stared defiantly at each other. They were the duellists. They were dressed in the latest vogue— red ochre, white chalk, and oil.

They opened the fight by shaking their waddies in each other's face. Then Biljim No. 1 obligingly bent down while Biljim No. 2 hit him the hardest wallop he could think of over the place where he kept his imagination. That blow would have killed a white man. But Biljim No. 1 merely shook his head and stood up, while Biljim No. 2 dutifully bent down in his turn to receive the best that Biljim No. 1 could give him. So the fight went on, each man giving and taking a whack alternately. Meantime the barrackers stood round in a group. They had given up their jabber, and watched the curious duel in stolid silence. Whack! Whack! That was all the sound— the thud of blows alternately delivered on the thick craniums of the fighters. Presently one went to earth. He could endure no more. The victor jumped on his body several times. Then he walked off, followed by the others. The vanquished man was left where he fell. His fate was nobody's business.

Shock For The Doctor

When I was in Washington I was shown the Neanderthal skull. Those of you who have not seen it at least know of it. Well, I think Biljim's skull must have been even thicker than that ancient piece of cerebral covering. I know that, a little while after the fight, a curious European doctor examined the "corpse," and decided in the interest of science to make a post mortem next morning. But when at daylight he reached the scene with his little case of instruments tucked under his arm, the "dead" man had disappeared. The doctor heard some natives laughing in the bush close by, and went over to enquire what they had done with the body. He nearly dropped in his tracks when he found the man who was laughing the loudest was the "dead" man he had come to dissect!

Whaling Station Described

On my various visits to the harbor I found holiday makers extremely interested in the old whaling days, and wondering what the old station was like. So far as I know it has never been described. This time I was determined to know. So I got myself piloted out to Encounter Bay, where Mr. R. T. Sweetman, now in his eighty somethingth year, was able to give me some sort of a picture of it as he knew it as a young man. You see there is nothing of the station left these days. The only evidence of whales is the tripod of whale bones erected close to the causeway at Victor Harbour. I call it a tripod for want of a better name. The whaling gear has gone this many a year. There is, I was told, a relic of some kind preserved at "Adare," but I didn't ask to see it. Yet, I suppose, as a matter of historical accuracy, we must regard the old station as the actual birthplace of Victor Harbour.

The whaling station then was a collection of small huts scattered about the Bluff, some of them actually on the rise, but most of them built in close to the cliff, somewhere about where the road skirts it going to the little jetty. There were one or two bigger buildings of a community nature. The married men had their own quarters. These were the huts I have mentioned— small wooden structures roofed with stringy bark. The single men lived in large bunk houses built of palings with the bunks arranged ship-fashion. A big paling shed, covered with the branches of trees, served as a dining room. Then meat came from the Tiers, the range of hills twelve miles back from Victor Harbour, a whole carcase of a bullock being delivered at a time. The whalers were all sorts and conditions of men, from the derelict aristocrat, whose breath smelt habitually of whisky, and who was as silent about his "past" as the "stable" is about the selected winner of the next big race, to the ticket-of-leave gentleman from Tasmania. "If you called one of them mister," said Mr. Sweetman, "he would ask who the hell you were talking to, and would tell you there were no blanky misters there."

Old Whalers

My informant gave me a list of the names of some of the better known whalers: — Jim Clark, Tom Clark, Jack Jones, Alec Ewen, Bill Harris, Jack Gangle, Peter Morgan, Jack Parsons, Bill Cleve, Jack McArthur, Dan Bude, Frank Buckley, George Bennett, Jack Foster, Rube Earl, Tom Atterill, Johnny Smith, Jack Patterson, — Cooper, and Jack Hyde.

The largest whale ever caught at Encounter Bay measured 74 ft. 7 in. A larger one was sighted, and it gave the hunters a battle royal. Victory rested with the whale. It smashed the boat, broke the legs or other limbs of several members of the crew, and got away. The boat, which had cost £600, was sunk in ten fathoms of water, and its remains lie about half a mile off the Bluff. The wounded men were rescued by the "pick-up" boat which always followed the attacking boat. For whaling was conducted on organised lines. Each team consisted of three crews with defined duties. The "attacking boat," with a crew of nine men, did the fighting. It was followed by the "assisting boat" with five men, whose duty was to lend a hand when needed. The "pick-up boat" with four men followed the others to effect a rescue in case of emergency.

The blacks gave the whalers much help as watchers. It was in their interest to do so, for, as I showed you at the beginning of this article, the capture of the big "fish" meant a royal feast for them. Incidentally, one of the best harpoonists at the station was an aboriginal— Black Dick.

The critical moment in whaling was the "kill." This was effected by a lance driven into some vital spot at an opportune moment, when the prongs of the harpoon had curled up inside the animal after striking. The last whale caught at the Bay was in 1872.

Rev. R. W. Newland

As you drive out to the Bluff you see before you a range of hills on which there are three or four houses, one of them in ruins, a little to the right. That was the home of the Rev. R. W. Newland. You cannot go very far In Victor Harbour without encountering the name of Newland. You meet it in the handsome new Congregational Church, which is a memorial to this fine old pioneer parson-pastoralist, and you meet it again and again as you carry your explorations wide over this extensive territory of Encounter Bay. For Newland was the pioneer settler of the country — he and his little band of 33 souls which he led from England in 1833. He was practically the founder of Victor Harbour.

Newland was a remarkable type. He was a Congregational minister who had a church in Staffordshire at the time he decided to emigrate with his wife and eight children, and a party of twenty-three followers. Among his fellow passengers on the Sir Charles Forbes was our old friend, Dr. Matthew Moorhouse, the first protector of aborigines, to whom I introduced you several times during our wanderings in the north. On his arrival in Adelaide Newland applied to Governor Gawler for advice as to where he and his small band of followers should settle, and was recommended to go to Encounter Bay. So he went.

The party split into two, the main body going by sea, while a smaller section set off through the bush to walk with a couple of blacks as guides. These adventurous spirits nearly died from starvation. You see, they didn't know just what kind of an undertaking they were up against, and when they came to Mount Terrible — I will tell you the story of that formidable barrier when we get to Yankalilla — they thought they would never get across. Nevertheless they got to their destination, more dead than alive, three days before the ship.

The settlement of Victor Harbour was not unlike the settlement of Adelaide. Newland's ship, the Lord Hobart, anchored under the lee of Granite Island. Boats were lowered, and the blacks on the beach watched the curious spectacle of white men and women being brought ashore, and carrying their stores on their backs to the higher ground among the scrub on the foreshore. Today fashionable residences cover the site of that landing, but in '39 the only "fashionable residences'" were the tents of the settlers erected in the bush in a large clearing that had to be made by hand. No sooner were the tents up than a chapel had to be provided. One was hastily constructed of boughs, and here the devout little band returned praise for the safe termination of a voyage which had lasted over six months. This was the first church service held south of Adelaide.

First Church In The South

As you motor round to Rosetta Head (in an early map I have before me it is marked Newland Head) you pass the old Encounter Bay Cemetery. It is an isolated and dilapidated spot these days, and you are apt to over look it unless you know it is there. Close to the front is a granite obelisk, which bears this inscription: —

"This stone marks the site of the Tabernacle, the first Congregational church in the southern district,, formed in 1846 by the Rev. B. W. Newland, the pioneer pastor of the south."

Tradition says this was the site of the first church south of the metro polis. I believe tradition for once is right. At all events, it was on this spot that the pioneer Newlands erected his Tabernacle, and it was under its floor that he was buried eighteen years later. Today all signs of the building have disappeared, and the body of the old pioneer has been transferred to the Victor Harbour cemetery. The reverend gentleman was killed in 1864, as the result of a coach accident on Cut Hill, that steep descent near Victor, which is such a prominent landmark, because of the long, stone wall which fronts the ad joining property. This stone wall, by the way, was built seventy odd years ago by a landholder named Grimbell.

As pioneer parson, pioneer pastoralist, pioneer chairman of the local district council, when it eventually came into existence, and leader of every local movement of importance, the Rev. B. W. Newland left an indelible mark on early Victor Harbour. But before everything else his church came first. Rain or shine, nothing could hold him from riding or driving miles over unmade roads to carry the message of the Gospel to the people of the southern bush. Probably he pioneered more churches than any other man in South Australia. The author of "Paving the Way" was a son. Sir Henry Newland is a grandson.

Wife Sold For Drinks

When they levelled the sandhills recently to make the new road to the Bluff, they brought into view the old Fountain Inn, which for years had lain hidden and forgotten behind a mass of windswept debris. Today the old inn is a dilapidated wreck, but it is the same in appearance as it was when it was the only centre of hilarity in Encounter Bay, except that an iron roof has replaced the more ancient one of shingles. But, if you like to make a close inspection, you can still see the shingles under the newer covering. The inn has been out of business this many a year. Today it leads a sedate existence as someone's holiday residence. But the old walls have seen life — life when the whalers knocked down their cheques in its noisy bar, and sang strange songs in raucous voices far into the night. It was in this old hostelry that the District Council of Encounter Bay was born on March 3, 1856. I suppose the strangest event it witnessed was the sale of a wife for a round of drinks. One day a teamster ambled in from the neighboring Tiers. The bar was full of whalers, and the whole company were in a merry mood.

"How goes it, mate?" one of the men of the coast asked the man from the hills.

"Fairly good," said the teamster; "'but it would go better if I had a wife."

"Would it? Well, what's wrong with buying mine?"

"What do you want for her?"

"Shout drinks all round, and you can have her."

The man shouted the drinks. Then the husband and the teamster went off to interview the lady. She expressed her approval of the proposed exchange, saying to her husband— "If that's all you think of me, then I'm going!" She was as good as her word. When the teamster left for the hills the woman went with him — and she stayed with him.

Big Cricket Match

Close by the Fountain Inn I was shown the old cricket ground, which in years gone by used to be the venue of Encounter Bay's biggest cricket match — an annual three-day fixture. The teams were Inman Valley and Bald Hill. The match was played for a banquet, for which the losers had to pay. The scene of the dinner was, of course, the Fountain Inn. For the best part of a week its walls shook to the laughter and songs of a hundred voices, and the dancing of a hundred pairs of feet. But most of those who laughed, and sang, and danced are now as silent as the historic house itself.

Battle Of The Old Mill

Then, close to the shore between Victor and the Bluff are the remains of the old windmill. It was built in the early fifties by Porter Hillsmore, who afterwards kept a school in Gawler. He died in 1860. The mill led a non-exciting existence for two years, 1851-3, grinding as much as 20 bushels of wheat a day— provided wind and weather were favorable. Very often they were not - so much so that, when some enterprising person established a rival steam mill in the Hindmarsh Valley, which was independent of the vagaries of natural zephyrs, impatient farmers took their custom there, and the Encounter Bay industry languished and died.

After the mill had gone out of commission it served another purpose — a safe hiding-place for the youngsters of the district to watch the blacks at their ceremonies and their wars. An ex-Mayor (Mr. Grosvenor) told me how his father as a small boy watched a battle among the blacks fought round the mill. It was a queer affair. The opponents formed up in two lines. Preceded by their women the warriors advanced towards each other. The females, presumably on the ground that their vituperative powers were of superior quality to the less nimble tongues of the men, expressed their opinions of their enemies with the utmost abandon and contempt, until gradually both sides worked themselves into a frenzy. They then began to throw spears. But the moment blood was drawn hostilities ceased. The side which had a man wounded lost. Finally the whole party, friends and enemies, began fraternising, and went away in the best of spirits.

Disposal Of Native Dead

It was from the same tower that, the elder Grosvenor and a companion watched the native ceremony of disposing of the dead. This was a custom about which the blacks were sensitive. They did not like the whites witnessing the ceremony. When a native died it was the custom to carry the body about for months before finally it was interred. To enable this to be done it was necessary to reduce it to skin and bone. This was done by placing it in the branch of a tree, and lighting a slow fire under it to melt it. When it had attained the desired lightness it was carried about with the tribe for so many moons before finding a resting place in some native cemetery.

Black Customs Versus White

Over sixty years ago the authorities at Victor Harbour tried to induce the natives to adopt the Christian method of burial. The blacks objected, and there was nearly a fight. A black died, and the local police man called the tribe together. He told them their departed brother must be buried "all the same as white man." He fixed a time for the funeral, and sent an undertaker along to make the arrangements. The blacks made it pretty plain to the official that he had better get out. And he did.

The authorities, however, insisted on Christian burial, and the policeman so far succeeded in pacifying the natives as to allow the body being put in a coffin, wrapped in its blankets. It was taken to the black man's wurley. The blacks were told to be ready to attend the funeral in the afternoon. This was an impressive function. The Rev. C. Hodge attended to give Christian burial, and the body, carried in a spring cart, was followed to the cemetery in approved fashion by blacks, lubras, piccaninninies, and dogs. The dusky mourners stood by stolidly during the service, but when it was over they held their own, howling dismally and gesticulating wildly. Then, when the whites had disappeared the grave was reopened, the corpse abstracted, stones and seaweed substituted in the coffin, and the body carried off to be dealt with in accordance with native custom.

Aboriginal Nomenclature

These men of the Encounter Bay tribe were called "Raminyeri," and Head was "Kungkengguwar," and Granite Island, "Nulcoowarra." Encounter Bay was "Harraunda," and Victor Harbour, "Poltong." The whale station was "Weiramulla," the Inman, "Moocola;" the Hindmarsh, "Yalladoold;" Goolwa, "Munoonpulla."

Rabbits Protected

We who fight the rabbit pest as we would fight a smallpox outbreak, and curse our neighbors roundly because they are not doing enough to exterminate bunny, will probably be surprised to learn that there was a time in the history of South Australia when the woolly pest was on the list of protected animals. This was some sixty year ago. The rodents were safe from molestation for six months every year — from July 1 to January 2.

NEXT WEEK STORY OF GOOLWA.

Images:

• Old Fountain Inn at Encounter Bay, where a whaler sold his wife for a round of drinks.

• Monument on the Bluff commemorating the meeting of Flinders and Baudin at Encounter Bay. — Sladdin photo.

• Obelisk commemorating the site of the first church south of Adelaide.

• Mr. D. Griffin, Mayor of Victor.