2 June 1932

WHEN THE GELTWOOD WENT DOWN

SILENT WATCH IN THE COORONG

How the blacks kept silent vigil through the night over a white woman who had been good to them; recollections of an old-time wreck; and a picture of life on the opal fields are among this week's real life stories.

Royal Guard of the Coorong.

— Many stories are told of the treachery of the blacks in the early days. Here is one, however, which shows that the native, if properly treated, could be grateful and even chivalric. It tells how the 'King of the Coorong' guarded a white woman when he thought she was in danger. Seventy years ago, when means of communication between Adelaide and Melbourne was a chain of mailmen, each carrying the mailbags over a specified part of the route, one mailman's duty often meant a night's absence from home. His hut was a lonely part of the Coorong now known as McGrath's Flat. During one of the absences of her husband the wife of the mailman found herself faced with the necessity of spending the night alone, while in close promixity to the house were camped a large gang of Chinese, who had been smuggled into the colony, and were going overland to the goldfields in Victoria. In those days, it must be recalled the Chinaman was regarded as something in the nature of a savage. Very late that night, the nervous woman was awakened by hearing strange sounds close to the house. For a while she lay trembling in bed. Finally, unable to bear the suspense any longer, she seized a gun and sallied out. Imagine her surprise when a dark figure rose from the ground and she recognised the King of the Coorong tribe. Posted all round the house were his picked warriors keeping faithful and secret vigil in the silent watches of the night over the white woman they had learned to love. McGrath's Flat is still held by the descendants of that mailman, and deeply instilled in their natures is the fairness which characterised their parents in their dealings with the natives. — 'S.B.,' Forest Range.

The Geltwood Case.

— It is so long since these happenings that people have forgotten, if they ever knew, the Geltwood story. One would not recall it if most of the actors in the affair had not long since passed over to the other side. The Geltwood was a cargo ship. She went down with all hands one wild, stormy night in the dangerous waters between Beachport and Port MacDonnell.

The wreckage was thrown up on the beach bordering the land of a young squatter, who was reported to have said to his employes: 'Help yourselves, lads; there's tobacco enough here for the rest of your lives.' Without a doubt the men 'helped themselves,' not only to tobacco, but to anything that came ashore— silk stockings, china, all kinds of merchandise. I believe they acted in all innocence, not knowing the law, and thinking they had a perfect right to any wreckage found.

But things leaked out, and the law stepped in. Master and men were committed to take their trial at the next Circuit Court at Mount Gambier. Now Mr. X. was wealthy, extremely popular, and his young wife had lately died, so much sympathy was felt for him. But the law had undoubtedly been broken, and someone had to be 'whopped' for it.

At last came the day of the trial Mr. K.'s case was heard first. I was very young, but still remember the excitement through the town on that occasion. The trial lasted all day, and towards evening the judge summed up dead against Mr. X, in spite of his lawyer's very eloquent defence. Candles were lit as dusk came, and by their light the judge's shadow on the wall, with his long nose and Red Indian type of features, was so grotesque that Mr. X's counsel and friend, who was feeling the strain almost as much as his client, owned that he was on the verge of hysterical laughter while awaiting the jury's return.

At last they came, the foreman giving their verdict, 'Not guilty.' Wild, emotional cheering broke out, sternly quelled by the judge, who was very indignant, and said afterwards that had the case been tried in Adelaide a very different verdict would have been given. But the twelve good men and true believed the young man innocent in intention if not in law, and gave their verdict accordingly. — 'Gambierite,' Adelaide.

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The Troglodytes.

— Coober Pedy, which means in the abo lingo, 'man living in a hole,' is unique among South Australian towns. The population of about 100 (including five women and five children) earn their living getting opal when they can find it. They live in dugouts delved in the hillsides. And very cosy homes some of them are, too, some being furnished with built-in-stoves, screen wire-doors, and other utilities and amenities of the culinary and home life.

Sunday morning the weekly mail from Kingoonya (180 miles) arrives, and causes a convergence of citizens upon the post office, where are the signs 'Commonwealth Bank of Australia' and 'post office' over a tunnelled entrance to the office. Here is also transacted electoral and other business, presided over by the P.M. The good order, health regulations, and settlement of disputes are controlled by a progress association elected by the miners. The committee rarely calls a meeting, in observance of others rights, sanitations, and general good order are a feature of the town.

Coober Pedy, in the boom days, had two policemen, but owing to 'lack of custom' they had to go back to 'civilisation,' where there was more scope for their abilities. As in all mining camps, the town numbers ex-citizens of many countries, a diversity of political beliefs, men of professions and trades who have found sanctuary away from the turmoil of the crowd.

Some good stories are told when men gather for yarn spinning in the evening. And some of the personal experiences are true. Although the outback is generous, his veracity may be questioned at times when he starts on what he did in the nineties. A good story was spoiled the other evening, when a miner was talking of the hundreds and thousands he had handled in his time, by another interjecting 'Yes; the sort mother used to put on the cake.' There are two cricket teams— Bolshevik Gullies and Peaceful Valleys— who play at the weekend, so far producing no Grimmetis or Bradmans.

The Australian Inland Mission supplies the field with all manner of reading, educational and devotional books, novels of all sorts, papers and magazines. The A.I.M cannot be too highly commended for this branch of work. Some big finds of opal have been made, but at present most of the known areas have been worked out, and gems are not selling well. Some new runs of opal will be found some day, and in the mean while Coober Pedyians keep the search going, still looking for that elusive fortune which is said to be at the foot of the rainbow, still waiting for next mail day with the reminders from the taxation man and other hard hearted people of the outside world. — 'Troglodyte,' Coober Pedy.

Breaking In The Colt.

— Back in the sixties were was an old colonist couple living in Blinman. They had a grown-up son and daughter, both good riders. One day the son John said to his mother, 'I'es going to buy a real colt, and I is going to braken-in me self, and give in to Mary Jane.'

Mother said to Mary Jane, 'What do 'e think of that for a brother?' Mary Jane answered, 'I do believe-in mother when I do see-in.' But John bought his colt out of the local pound. He made a dummy rider and led the colt about the country with the dummy for about five or six weeks. He could not raise courage enough to ride him.

I was riding to the township one afternoon when I met John leading his colt with the dummy on. I asked him if he had ridden him yet. He replied, 'No, me son. I hain't reden in yet. I do believe he is going to be a bucker.' I said 'Hold my horse. I will ride him.' I got on the colt and cantered him back about a quarter of a mile, and then raced back to where John was holding my horse. He seemed surprised. 'He haint no bucker,' he said, 'but I believe he be a racer.'

John got on his colt, and we rode in to the township. A stranger came up and said, 'That my horse you are riding?' John answered, 'No, this haint your horse; this be a real colt. I bought out of the pound.'' 'He is no colt,' retorted the stranger. 'He is a broken-in horse. I lost him six or eight months ago.' Mary Jane got the horse. Mother could never be persuaded that he had previously been broken in. She always stuck to it— that 'our John bought a real colt and broken in his self.' — C. E. Roberts, Blinman.

Forerunner Of The Motor Car.

— At Yankalilla years ago a Mr. Graham lived at Bungala House for many years, and previously at 'the cottage,' adjoining Christ Church rectory. He was a genius at inventing all sorts of clever things, although fearfully handicapped as far as his health was concerned.

One of the strongest contraptions he invented was a land sailing boat. It was a machine built after the style of a yacht, which the wind blew along the road. I never saw the contraption myself, as my family made it their special business to avoid it, knowing well that if our horse encountered it on the road we would all be smashed up for certain. Nevertheless, many others saw it sailing down the road.

Mr. Graham's eldest son, Jack, went to the front in the war, and did great things In the Flying Corps. He was a great airman, and it seems as if his father's cloak of cleverness must have descended on him. — E. Roebuck Wise, Normanville.

Tales About Seacliff.

— On the beach at Seacliff are two well-known land marks, being two Norfolk Island pines, over 80 years of age. They were planted by Sir George Kingston, father of the Rt. Hon. C. C. Kingston, and they go by the name of 'Pat' and 'Charlie,' the two Kingston boys, whose births they commemorate. In spite of their having been such conspicuous objects for many years, there are comparatively few people who know how they came to be on the beach.

The recent tragic storm at Glenelg reminds me that about 20 years ago a sudden squall came up one Sunday when two or three yachts had gone sailing to Port Noarlunga. The 'Swallow' did not get back by daylight, and at night a young fellow, who had built one of the first motor boats, took a very strong headlight and put out to sea to search. He did not know which way to go, but went straight from the Brighton jetty.

Five miles out, in a black, tempestuous sea, he found the boat overturned and three men clinging to it. The father was saved, but was out of his mind. The son was dead, and a friend was exhausted. If Providence had not guided that motor boat, they all undoubtedly would have been lost.

On another occasion, seven children— six boys and a girl — all under seven years of age, were playing with a boat anchored to the shore. The children pulled up the anchor, and, as an east wind was blowing, the boat drifted out to sea. An uncle of one of the boys swam out a good distance, until he dared go no further. Then a returned soldier— who had been wounded in the spine, took a boat out and towed the youngsters back. The boat was a mere speck on the sea when the rescuers started, and had been drifting for three hours. When they got back the children were quite calm, seeing no danger in the adventure. One of the boys was staying with me, and I had to punish him. I dare say he remembers it to this day. — Edith Dove, Seacliff.

Father Tunes the Piano.

— In 1877 we moved to a country town about 40 miles north from Adelaide. After a few years' residence we purchased a piano. Being the only instrument in the township, it was often borrowed to assist at local concerts. In a few years it required tuning. This necessitated sending to the city for a tuner. The man came, but we had a shock when he asked for £3. I resolved to learn piano tuning myself.

On my next visit to the city I procured a book of instructions, a tuning fork, and tools. About this time a man came to attend the church organ. I had a talk with him, and he agreed to give me a few hours' tuition for 10/. I then reckoned I was fit for the job.

One afternoon I tackled the work. In due time the piano was opened, and a lady started to play. No one in the room could recognise the tune. We thought it must be an Italian opera selection. The lady said no, it was a very simple piece. 'I think there is something wrong with the wires,' she said. She tried again. but it was no use. We concluded that my tuning was a failure. We telegraphed for a man from the city.

When he came I showed him into the room and left him. I heard him trying the keys. He opened the door and said, 'Your piano is in an awful state.' 'Yes,' says I, 'that's why we sent for you.' Says he, 'How long since you had it tuned?' I thought for a second. 'Let me see;' says I, 'it is less than three months.' 'If that is true,' he retorted, 'the man who tuned it ought to be hung.' 'Yes,' I agreed, 'so he ought.' Then I slunk away, fearful lest the horrible truth should come out. — Samoht, Wayville.

Disturbed Night.

— A gang of men in the region of Milne's Gap, on the south-eastern drainage works, were housed in a dry-stone shack roofed with tarpaulins. There were a dozen (of them in the group, and their bunks were ranged six on each side of the dwelling. This gang was portion of the first hundred men brought from Adelaide in August, 1867, and the incident happened shortly after they located there.

The scene was about six miles from where Millicent now is. The town did not come into existence for about five years later. The men had retired to rest, but one, Pat Gillfoyle, left the shack about two o'clock in the morning. Pat knew that his bunk was third from the door, so when returning did not bother about a light. He felt his way past number one bunk without disturbing any of the others. Gliding his hands over number two, they came in contact with the occupant's toes. This man, Dan O'Connor, let out a yell, 'A schnake, a schnake!'

In a twinkling ten men were on the floor searching for matches to light their candles. Before the candles were alight, Gillfoyle, the unintentional cause of the disturbance, crept back into his bunk and covered his head with his blankets. The gang could get nothing out of Dan O'Connor other than, 'A great schnake crawled over me feet.' No one accepted Dan's explanation.

Somebody, noticing that Pat's blankets were undisturbed, unceremoniously hauled him out, and an explanation was required. Pat told the story, but the others put the blame on Dan. As punishment, he had to get out, boil the billy, and give them 'supper' at three o'clock in the morning.— 'Tanta Tyga,' Millicent.

How The Tantanoola Tiger Was Killed.

— The story of the Tantanoola tiger was retold in 'The Chronicle' the other day, but gave no details of how the great brute met its end. A reward of £100 had been offered by some of the larger stockowners for its capture. Hearing that the animal had been seen near Mount Salt, Mr. T. Donovon, a noted rifle shot, and Mr. W. Taylor, set out on August 20, 1895, to capture it.

The next morning at daybreak the hunt began. Mr. Donovon was armed with a Winchester repeating rifle, and Mr. Taylor with a double-barrelled gun loaded with large shot. They separated and followed the range for three miles. At 8 a.m. they met and remarked that all seemed quiet. Suddenly they noticed some sheep, 400 yards off, running, with a large animal in pursuit. It was seen to single out a sheep, and, driving it forward, to play with it, in much the same way as a cat with a mouse.

The hunters took off their boots and crept forward to meet the sheep. The wind blew across their trail, and they advanced to within 100 yards of the monster. They dared wait no longer. The 'tiger' was partly facing them, its right side at an angle of 45 degrees. Mr. Donovon fired, aiming just behind the forearm, for the heart. The beast sprang into the air, gave a short cry, bit savagely at its wound, covered 300 yards at great speed, and dropped dead. The whole countryside rejoiced when the news spread. The beast proved to be an Assyrian wolf, but it still remains known in local history as the Tantanoola tiger. — George Holloway, Mount Gambier.