No 52 Port Lincoln

"They were the good old days, when everybody knew everybody. They will never come back again." The old lady closed her eyes, and one could see she was momentarily transported to the past.

"That might be an advantage," her companion remarked.

"Perhaps," she answered, and there was a touch of pathos in her voice, "but we value them now that they are gone."

She was speaking of Port Lincoln in the palmy days of the sixties, when the little steamer Lubra ambled casually into port, with a figurehead of a lubra carrying a piccaninny on her back, and the jovial Captain McCoy on the bridge, bringing the first sewing machine to the wild West Coast. He was a man of many parts, this Captain McCoy, to whom I first introduced you at Port Augusta last year. He could tell a good story, conduct a church service, or mind a baby. When the girl for whom the sewing machine was intended gazed at the new modern contraption which had been deposited in her front parlor, she nearly fainted at the hopeless complexity of the thing. It was the versatile Captain McCoy who taught her how to work it. That was in '66.

Since then the port has developed somewhat. It is the outlet for the wheat and wool of a country of immeasurable distances. It is the starting point of some 400 miles of railway, and like the historic Oliver, is crying out for more. Whether or not it ought to have it is not my business— just now.

Port Lincoln is full of sturdy old white beards — men who have gone out into the wilds and fought against drought, and fire, and famine, and thirst, and every other obstacle that Nature in her most ruthless mood can oppose to the march of progress. But they have won out, most of these old men, and in the process they have become as tough as tungsten steel. "Hard work, plenty of whackings, no schooling, driving bullocks in the plough in our teens." That was how one leather-sinewed veteran summed up the story of his life. And it is a typical story.

Oysters

In case you do not know it, I might tell you Port Lincoln is the place from which the oysters come. That, of course, is the traditional version. As a matter of fact the oysters do not come from Port Lincoln at all, but chiefly from Coffin's Bay, or Button Bay. But they are shipped from Lincoln, which is near enough. Now from Coffin's Bay to Port Lincoln is a good 25 miles, and in the old days of which I write it took 12 hours to cover the distance over the rough roads which weren't roads at all, but just tracks over virgin soil as innocent of metal as Larwood's apologies for his body line tricks. Nine teams used to be engaged in the industry, leaving the Bay at 9 p.m. on Fridays, and reaching the port at 9 a.m. on Saturdays. When a team got bogged, which was pretty often, the others hitched their horses to the recalcitrant vehicle and, provided it held together, pulled it out. If it didn't hold they got some of it. I was told of one team which was pulled out of the bog six times in 11 miles. That should give you an idea of the quality of the roads.

When the oysters got to Lincoln they were rebedded. A number of fishermen each had their own little patch of oyster garden neatly fenced off in the bay, where the bivalve molluscs resided quietly until such time as they were required for somebody's soiree in Adelaide. But, if old identities are not mistaken — and old identities never are — those oysters were not always as quiet as well brought up oysters should be. They developed a habit of visiting each others' patches in such quantities as to leave the owner of the plot where they were finally located completely mystified as to how they get there. I was told that the wanderlust among the rebedded molluscs caused more fights among their owners than any Donnybrook Pair that was ever held. But the man who told me about it didn't put it that way. He was more concise. "They used to pinch each other's oysters," he said, "and then there was a scrap."

Eyre's Big Trek

One day in 1840 a weary traveller, with long hair and a beard almost rivalling Methuselah's, unexpectedly dropped in to Port Lincoln. He looked as if he hadn't had a square meal for months— and I don't suppose he had. It was Edward John Eyre, he whom Governor Gawler had honored the year before by giving his name to the peninsula on which Eyre now found himself. The explorer had just been through a heart-breaking experience. He had set out north to explore Lake Torrens, but found the country so hopelessly in hospitable that he never reached his objective. He was forced to turn back, and as Port Lincoln was his nearest point of civilisation, he made for there to replenish his stores.

Now it so happened that Eyre could not have chosen a worse time to hit Port Lincoln for supplies. The little settlement was itself almost on the breadline, and was waiting dally for tucker that never came. In his extremity, Eyre turned to Dr. Harvey — I gave you the doctor's interesting story last week — to help him out. But all that Harvey had was a small quantity of flour, on to which he was holding like grim death for use in an emergency. He gave this to Eyre. But he did even better than that. He told the explorer to rest himself, while he (Harvey) dispatched a boat to Adelaide for provisions. This was just about the time of the murder of young Hawson.

Among the multitudinous duties Harvey performed was that of reading the lessons in church. Eyre tells us that he attended church with the doctor over the week-end, when Harvey read prayers. The explorer accompanied the doctor home to dinner, where they were joined by the surgeon from the French whaling ship "L'Aglae." Later, the three had tea at the Frenchman's camp.

A few days later Harvey's boat re turned laden with provisions for Eyre. It was then that the explorer, with his companion Baxter and three natives, started on their memorable journey to Albany, via the Great Australian Bight —a feat universally acclaimed as one of the greatest in the history of Australian exploration.

Lord Byron's Carriage

The wilds of the West Coast is about the last place on earth one would search for a relic of Byron. Yet there is one there— or was. This was a carriage which once belonged to the English poet. It has rather an interesting history. According to local tradition it was sent out by Byron to his friend, Lady Charlotte Bacon, when she was residing in Adelaide in the early days of the State.

In this case, however, local tradition is obviously wrong. Byron couldn't have sent the carriage out to Lady Charlotte, because she wasn't here in his time, and she wasn't here because South Australia was not in existence when the poet died in 1824.

Nevertheless it is beyond dispute that the carriage did belong to Byron. The panels on each side bore the Byron arms and family motto, and its authenticity was established when an attempt was made to buy it for the South Australian Museum. It is also beyond dispute that the vehicle was the property of Lady Charlotte. It was sold by auction with her other belongings on her death. That is how it came to get to the West Coast. The probability is that Byron gave the equipage to Lady Charlotte some years before his death, and that she brought it to Adelaide with her.

It so happened that when the property of Lady Charlotte was being offered by auction, one of the Hawson family accidentally strolled into the mart, bought the historic old vehicle, and took it back with her to the peninsula. There it remained for many years on the Hawson estate at Lake Wangary. Mrs. Hawson, who owned the affair, was an independent old lady who had her own views about things. So, when she was offered £50 for the carriage by a would-be purchaser who wished to present it to the Museum, she threw the letter into the fire, remarking: — "If it's worth £50 to them, it's worth £50 to me."

Used As A Hen's Nest

But, with the passage of the years, Mrs. Hawson went the way we must all go. The next stage in the descent of the relic was its presence for years in a shed at the rear of the Wangary Hotel. There it lay forgotten and neglected, except by the hens of the establishment, who found it a comfortable roosting place, while the ladies of the poultry run considered its cushions an ideal spot on which to deposit their eggs.

Then came the war, with its Australia Day processions and like excitements. Someone bethought himself of the Byron relic. It was dragged from its obscurity at Lake Wangary, and taken to Lincoln to participate in these public displays. It was given a rough coat of paint to freshen it up — and that was the end of the historic coat of arms. It is in the role of an exhibit in an Australia Day display that you see it in the picture on this page, with old Black Fanny, the last of the Port Lincoln tribe, and since deceased, in the place of honor. She looks as dignified there as might Lady Charlotte herself.

The rest of the sad story of Byron's coach is soon told. Exposed to rain and sunshine it led a vagrant existence for several years, until at length it again found itself in the auction mart with a lot of old junk. There it was purchased by a local blacksmith, and broken up for its parts. The springs, after more than a century's service and ill-usage. are as good as ever, and form part of a carrier's lorry. The rest of the parts are scattered over the face of the landscape, except the undercarriage, which lies rusted and unprotected in the yard of Mr. H. J. Johnson's smithy.

Sic eunt fata hominum— and carriages.

Lady Charlotte Bacon

To be strictly truthful— unfortunately it is one of my failings— Lady Charlotte Bacon has nothing to do with the story of Port Lincoln, except so far as she comes into the romance of Lord Byron's carriage. But she was such an interesting' personality, and so little is known about her nowadays, that I think you will pardon me if I tell you a little of her story.

Charlotte Mary Bacon, or Harley if we use her maiden name, was the third daughter of the fifth Earl of Oxford, a title which died out during her life time, and was revived a few years ago when it was conferred on the late Mr. Asquith. She married General Bacon, of the 11th Hussars, and a veteran or Waterloo. She had a family of three children— Edward and Karley Bacon, and Mrs. C. B. Young— all of whom settled in Adelaide.

It was (I think) in 1865, following the death of her husband, that she came to South Australia on a visit to her children. Now anybody who knows anything of English society in Mid-Victorian times knows that it was so stiff and full of ceremonial that one almost had to spend one's spare time stewing over the rules of etiquette. To infringe one meant social outlawry. We were certainly a queer race in the days of the strict old Queen.

So when Lady Charlotte reached Adelaide, and found to what extent Australians had thrown off these trammels which made life not worth living, she decided to stay here. And she did— for 12 years or more. It was then, presumably, that she had Byron's carriage sent out.

She and the poet had always been friends. Those of you who know "Childe Harold" may be interested to learn that it was to Lady Charlotte that the verses "To Ianthe" were addressed. She was a lady of decided charm, and one of the most popular members of the British aristocracy who has ever visited Adelaide. She returned to England in 1877 on gaining a large fortune as the result of an action in Chancery — and died three years later.

Lincoln In 1841

Today, as you wander along the foreshore of Boston Bay, you are as likely as not to kick your foot against a lime stone obstruction in the sandhills. If you are of an inquisitive frame of mind, you will probably discover this to be the buried foundations of a cottage which once housed the pioneers of '41 — those sturdy veterans of both sexes who lived in daily terror of being murdered by the blacks, but who, nevertheless hung on with bulldog tenacity until they won out.

Port Lincoln at this early period consisted of 48 houses — eight first-class, 20 second class, and 20 cottages. The "first class" houses were those which cost £500 each to build — do not your eyes shine with envy, you suburbanites of today?— the "second class" definition was applied to those costing in the vicinity of £60; while the cottages were each valued at £20.

At that time 4,000 acres of land had been selected, and there were 195 souls in the district. There were 6,000 sheep valued at £1 per head: 450 cattle worth £6 10/ apiece; 18 horses, returned at £30 each, and 100 goats and pigs valued at £1 10/.

"Whales," we learn, ''were repeatedly to be seen from the houses floating about in the bay."

Troublesome Convicts

In 1839 much of the labor was cheap and nasty. The settlers had an unpleasant habit of importing ticket-of-leave men from Van Diemen's Land, and these fellows were not always possessed of the most gentle disposition. Here is one particular instance of the trouble they caused.

When Smith and Shane took up their portion of the Special Survey they sent to Van Diemen's Land for a number of convicts to work the property. For the first couple of years things boomed in Lincoln, prices for land were high, and speculators were at work, for the people, both at Lincoln and Adelaide, still had visions of the capital being moved to the big harbor across the Gulf. During these years of plenty the convicts behaved themselves with as much reasonableness as could be expected of gentry of their kidney.

But then came the "bust" — as it must inevitably come in every boom. Governor Gawler's famous bills were dishonored by the Imperial Government, and South Australia wallowed in the troughs of bankruptcy. The whole province was thrown into a state of disruption. Gentlemen who had been attracted to "the colonies" by reports of the fabulous wealth to be picked up there, found themselves stranded. They were reduced to starvation. Many committed suicide. The outlook for the young province was about as black as it could be.

Port Lincoln, in common with other parts of the country, was hit full on the solar plexus by the crash. Many of the settlers found themselves involved in financial entanglements from which it was impossible to extricate themselves. Smith and Shane were among the victims. They had to turn their convicts loose.

Now this was about the very time, as I told you in previous articles, that the settlers at the port were practically on the breadline. Provisions were scarce — and dear. The people were hard put to it to feed themselves. This was the moment Smith and Shane set their roughs free. The desperadoes decided that if there was any starving to be done they were not going to do it. They began plundering the settlers of their stores. The position was aggravated by the fact that the stolen provisions could not be re plenished. Those days there were no police in the settlement, and the convicts became so daring that they committed many thefts in open daylight.

Eventually the situation became so serious that the settlers told the Government they must have protection, whatever the cost. The result was the appointment of the first resident magistrate in Port Lincoln. This was Matthew Smith. At the same time five police officers were sent, including Sergeant Edward McEllister, who subsequently became M.P. for Yatala in the Assembly, and later an M.L.C. The arrival of the police had a sobering effect on the outlaws.

Population In Panic

In a previous article I mentioned the state of panic in which the people lived in the early forties, when they were daily expecting to be wiped out by the blacks. Here is an account left by J. C. Hawker, showing how the affairs of the district were brought to a standstill by the menace: —

"We arrived at Port Lincoln," says this early historian, "and found not only the residents, but also the settlers from their country stations, in an absurd state of panic. Owing to the attacks on a few stations they imagined the natives were sure eventually to make a raid on the township, and ludicrous arrangements were made for their safety. The gaol, having a stone wall surrounding it, was chosen as the best place for retreat. Fabulous statements were in constant circulation about large bodies of natives being seen in war paint close to the town. The owners of horses that had strayed not far from the town were afraid to look for them. Only one station was occupied during this excitement — the Swamp (Hawson's), three miles from Lincoln."

Another writer records that "The settlers in the bush fled to the town ship. Agriculture was neglected at a critical time. Cattle were running wild in the bush. All the sheep were brought within six or seven miles of the town. The settlers kept more than four times the number of servants they required, and they could earn any wages they demanded. The natives profited by the panic, and enjoyed the deserted property."

When you stand on the shore of Boston Bay today, watching the water lapping gently at your feet, and white sailed yachts skimming gracefully over the smooth waters of the harbor, you find it difficult to visualise the pictures I have just given you of the reign of terror of nearly a century ago.

Story Of Cape Catastrophe

I was standing at the rail of the ship, idly watching the islands go by, when a fellow passenger at my elbow remarked, "I suppose there are plenty of thistles there." He nodded towards where Thistle Island guards the southern toe of the peninsula, the point we know as Cape Catastrophe. I looked at my questioner. He was an intelligent young man, sharp and alert. But obviously he didn't know the story of his State.

"The name 'Thistle'," I answered, "refers to a man, not a plant."

Then I told him the story of Cape, Catastrophe. He was surprised and interested. That is why I am retelling it here. And I am telling it much as Flinders told it over a hundred years ago except that I have condensed the navigator's tale. The quoted passages are Flinders's own words.

It was a Sunday evening, February 21, 1802, when the Investigator, exploring Spencer's Gulf, stood in towards a narrow strait separating what is now known as Thistle Island from the main land of Eyre Peninsula. At that time, of course, none of the names I am employing were in existence. The vessel anchored off the north-west end of the island, and Flinders went ashore. While he was examining the coast he was attacked by a white sea eagle, which came at him with outspread wings and every sign of beginning hostilities. Between the mainland and Thistle Island lay several smaller isles, so placed as to render the approach of a ship a difficult proposition. There was only one space, a mile and a half in width, by which a vessel could safely enter. Owing to these difficulies of navigation Flinders bestowed the name "Thorny Passage" on the strait.

The vessel lay there all night. Late the following afternoon, the company, being short of water, Flinders dispatched a party ashore in a cutter to search for supplies. The party consisted of Mr. John Thistle, the master, a midshipman named Taylor, and six able bodied seamen. Towards dusk the cutter was seen returning to the ship under sail. But night closed in without anything fur their being heard or seen of the boat.

Those on board the Investigator began to feel anxious. A light was exhibited from the ship, "and Lieutenant Fowler went in a boat with a lanthorn to see what might have happened." Thus two hours passed. Then a gun was fired from the ship, and Fowler returned aboard. He reported that he had met with so strong a tide near the place where the cutter was last seen that he narrowly escaped being upset. "Had it been daylight the victims of the disaster might have been picked up, but it was too dark to see, and no answers were received to our 'halloes,' and the firing of muskets."

As soon as it was daylight Flinders headed the Investigator for the mainland, "keeping an officer at the mast head with a glass." Seeing a small cove with a sandy beach, he took the ship in there, and anchored in 10 fathoms of water.

Memory Cove

A boat was dispatched towards the shore with instructions to search for the missing men. After a short interval it returned to the ship, towing the cutter bottom up. It was "stove in in every part, having the appearance of being dashed against the rocks." A long search for survivors proved fruitless, "so I named the southern extremity of the mainland 'Cape Catastrophe.'"

The search was continued for two more days, but the only other evidence of the lost sailors recovered was Thistle's water keg. So Flinders named the larger island "Thistle Island" after the lost master, and a smaller isle "Taylor Island" after the middy. In referring to the search for the bodies, Flinders said the number of sharks about rendered the hope of recovering them futile.

"I caused an inscription to be en graved upon a sheet of copper," says the navigator, "and set up on a stout post at the head of the cove, which I named Memory Cove, and further to commemorate our loss, I gave each of the six islands nearest to Cape Catastrophe the name of one of the seamen."

The Flinders Inscription

The years played havoc with that historic plate. Piece by piece it corroded, and dropped into the sand. Portions of it were recovered years later, and placed in the Public Library. It has since been transferred to the Art Gallery. Important portions of the inscription were missing, and there was always speculation regarding the wording. It was not until 1924 that an authentic record was discovered, supplied by the Admiralty (London) from Flinders' log. It reads:—

Memory Cove H.M.S. Investigator. M. Flinders. Comr.
Anchored Here February 22, 1802.
Mr. John Thistle the master, Mr. William Taylor, Midn.. and
Six of the crew were most unfortunately drowned near this place from being upset in a boat.
The wreck of the boat was found, but the bodies were not recovered.
Nautic Cavete.

Nautic Cavete means "Sailors Beware."

Now I have told you a great many things about Port Lincoln, culled from many sources. Some of the stories are new and some are not, but all are interesting. Yet I have only touched the fringe of the subject. Among my informants were Messrs. D. O. Whaite (mayor), Martin Sheridan, Thomas Spalding, Edward Simmons. Maurice Henderson, A. T. Green, F. W. Lill, J. K. Bishop, H. J. Johnson. W. M. Mc Farlane, Mesdames M. G Hawson, C. Theakstone, and Miss A. K. Bishop.

Mystery Of The Mill Solved

Last week I referred to the mystery of the old mill on Mr. Bishop's property, about which I could get no information. In response to my request, broadcast to the world in general, for any particulars which might be available, a woman correspondent, who prefers to remain anonymous, supplies the missing link.

The mill, it appears, is not as old as we supposed. It dates from the discovery of the Victorian gold diggings. It is a monument to the craze which seized the people of Australia when the magic spell of gold lured them across the borders- when doctors, lawyers, clergymen, policemen, sailors, schoolmasters, in fact, the world of art, commerce, finance and industry, lost its head completely, deserted its various occupations, and fled en masse to the golden Mecca.

It was at this hectic period that the mill was being erected for a Mr. Poole. The tower was finished, and the workers were about to erect the wings, when news arrived of the rich discoveries in the east. The population of South Australia fled almost to a man. The workers on the mill were no better than the rest. Bitten by the gold bug, they abandoned work on the mill to make a hurried dash to El Dorado. That is why the mill was never finished.

I am much obliged to my informant.

Next Week Story of Belair.

Images:

• Memory Cove, the scene of the disaster of 131 years ago, which led to Cape Catastrophe receiving its name. The eight islands nearest the locality are each named after one of the victims. —Courtesy of the Archives.

• Lord Byron's carriage the story of which is told on this page. — Courtesy of Mr. H. J. Johnson.