13 July 1933

EARLY TRAGEDY OF THE BUSH

STORY OF LANGHORNE'S CREEK — AND IT'S SEQUEL

Time has eliminated the evidence of many a strange happening in and around Adelaide. This story recalls a local legend of an early tragedy and buried treasure within 45 miles of the city.

Between Langhorne's Creek (on the south) and Rocky Gully (north) lies a stretch of undulating country. The greater portion of the southern side, with the exception of a few farms near Langhorne's Creek, remains in its primeval state, covered with dense bush where kangaroos, emus, foxes and other game abounds.

On the northern side, in the vicinity of Rocky Gully and Monarto, the country presents a different appearance. There fertile farms and red-roofed houses dot the landscape. In this locality, long ago, a grim tragedy is said to have happened. Old residents still vouch for the authenticity of the occurrence. Years ago this part was heavily timbered. Through it bush tracks and travelling stock routes were cut to facilitate the proving of stock to the Adelaide market. Two young cattle men had driven a mob of 'fats' over this route to Adelaide. After disposing of them and being paid in gold, they set out on the return journey.

The first night they camped in a tent in the neighborhood of Rocky Gully. During the night one of the men left the tent. On his return his partner was disturbed and in a half-awakened state of excitement and apprehension he mistook his mate for a robber, picked up his revolver and fired. On getting out of bed he was horrified to find that he had shot his comrade dead.

In a state of mental distress, and fearing his story might not be believed, he decided to bury the body along with the share of the money on the spot.

Years later, on his death-bed in Melbourne, he related the story of the tragedy, and described as near as possible the locality. Many attempts by searchers have since been made to locate the spot, but all have been fruitless.

My adventure in quest of this hidden treasure dates back to about the time of the Tantanoola tiger scare. One Saturday afternoon my brother and I saddled our horses and set out. We made for a hill known as 'Camel's Hump,' so called from the resemblance it bears to a dromedary. Thinking this might be a likely spot we made a thorough search.

After hunting around for a couple of hours we came across a billycan placed between some stones. It was very rusty and was falling to pieces with age. In it we discovered some bones apparently those of a dog. We do not know If they had any bearing on the tragedy. Apart from this we found nothing.

On the return journey, still hopeful of locating this El Dorado, I asked my brother to lead my horse whilst I made a detour along a thickly-wooded gully. Two staghounds, a fox terrier, and cattle dog accompanied me. Half-way down a clump of scrub grew higher and thicker than the rest. The dogs entered this about fifty yards in advance of me.

Suddenly there was a commotion, as of dogs attacking something, and then an uncanny noise. It began with a resemblance to a growl and finished with a sound like 'Ur-ur-ur.' I listened. There was more scuffling, and then a howl from a dog as if in pain.

The story of the Tantanoola tiger flashed across my mind. Had he changed his haunts? I did not wait to investigate, but 'got' for my life. After doing a hundred yards I steadied up to get my breath. Glancing over my shoulder I was terrified to see the tops of the mallee shaking, and to hear the scrub rattling not fifty yards from me. ' I tried to accelerate, but could not. My breath came in spasmodic gasps. On the other side of some thick broom was a high mallee — my only chance. I made for the tree. I had scrambled almost through the broom when something collided heavily with my back.

"I'm gone," I thought, as I landed face down— the first stroke of that tiger's paw. Then over me surged a dozen feet and onward. Reassured, I looked up in time to catch a view of a large cock emu with the dogs in hot pursuit. I rose to my feet. It then dawned on me it was nesting time. Going back to the place where the scuffling occurred I searched. About ten yards from me I noticed another emu which appeared to be dead. It was lying low on its stomach with its head and neck flat on the ground. Going toward it I was surprised to see it rise. It was the hen bird sitting on eight eggs. By lying low it evidently thought it would not be noticed. It was now clear that the male bird had defended the nest until overcome by fear, and in its terrified flight its breast-bone had collided with my back. I arrived home with a bad bruise, but no treasure. How ever, by all accounts, it is still there awaiting the lucky finder.— Lindsay Harvey, Langhorne's Creek.

Damned If He Knew!

Years ago Parliamentary aspirants were not so accomplished in the art of subterfuge as they are today. Touring Eyre's Peninsula once with an electioneering party was a candidate quite new to the game.

At one town he was putting forward all the usual baits — reduction in taxation, reduction in tariff, reduction in wharfage, &c., &c. It was only necessary to put him and his colleagues into Parliament, and the country's ills would be cured.

An interested member of the audience enquired— "If you make all these reductions, Mr. X., where will you get the revenue to maintain the public service?" After a thoughtful pause, came the candid and startling answer — "I'm d——d if I know!" — 'Peggotty,' Cowell.

Charlie Peake, Of The Warburton Expedition

In the work of Australian exploration many courageous deeds were performed and many hardships endured. All honor is due to the intrepid explorers, who carried out hazardous journeys, fraught with suffering and appalling torture, and from which, in many instances, they never returned.

Paradoxically enough, the ultimate success of a number of undertakings was due in no small measure to the assistance of Aboriginals, whereas, in other cases, failure and loss of life resulted through encounters with the blacks. It is safe to assert, however, that exploration parties were assisted by the natives more often than they were hampered. Many expeditions were accompanied by Aboriginals, who rendered valuable services.

One such case was that of Charlie Peake, one of the native members of Colonel Warburton's party on the tortuous journey to the west coast of the continent.

The party encountered seemingly insuperable difficulties, and at times it appeared that they must inevitably perish. On one occasion their water was exhausted, and the nearest known supply many days of travel distant. It appeared utterly useless to search for water in such arid surroundings.

The gallant party had practically abandoned hope and resigned themselves to their fate. It was at this critical stage that the superb bushcraft of Charlie Peake asserted itself. He slipped off alone and discovered a supply which, without a shadow of doubt, was the means of saving the lives of the whole party. So grateful was Colonel Warburton that after his return to civilisation he saw that Charlie was well provided for.

Unfortunately the native did not live to a great age. A disease broke out in his foot, and to prevent it from spreading it was found necessary to amputate the limb. The operation was carried out at the Adelaide Hospital. The shock to the system was great, but Charlie rallied for a while, and was placed under the care of Rev. G. Taplin, the well-known missionary, who was such an ardent worker for the Australian Aboriginals. However, after a short time the disease recurred, and this poor native, who was perhaps not unworthy of mention in Australian history, gradually sank. — A.H.B., Adelaide.

Something In A Name

Despite what Mr. Shakespeare says, there is sometimes something in a name.

Somewhere round 1914 a farmer a few miles out of Mount Bryan sold his property. Having a German name, and it being war time, the officials were more particular than usual. To get the transfer through the landholder had to produce his birth certificate. He had always been under the impression that his name was Albert Ernest, and naturally, he gave that designation when he wrote for the certificate. An answer came back that there were no records of such a birth.

The farmer, very much taken aback, wrote again, and after much futile correspondence took the train for Adelaide, determined to tell the registrar what he thought of his department. The irate farmer was given the records to search himself. No success.

Said the registrar, "There's a John Henry who answers to all your particulars as regards parentage, place of birth, and everything else, except the Christian names."

The farmer had a look at the entry. Sure enough, it was so. He found he was not Albert Ernest at all, but John Henry. There had never been an Albert Ernest.

"Your father must have been drunk when he registered you," the registrar remarked lightly. The other replied soberly, "He certainly was."

The registrar altered the name, gave the farmer his certificate, and the transfer went through. But for years that farmer had done all his business under the name of Albert Ernest.— 'Famer's Girl,' Mount Bryan.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1933, July 13). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article90891172