30 November 1933

BELIEVE IT IF YOU LIKE 

An Old Bushman's Story

The man who tells the story of the ducks which were cooked on the rocks by the Bosworth water hole, and of the Christmas turkey which virtually placed itself in the station oven, is a well-known bushman of the North-West country. That, however, does not necessarily make him a model of veracity.

A paragraph in 'The Chronicle' of October 3 carries me back to the days when John Bevis was manager of Oakden Hills Station. Jones was a 'ring-neck,' Charlie Crook one of the travelling hawkers, and Jones's brother, some six feet two, was the district parson. 

One Boxing Day in the eighties I reached Oakden Hills just before dinner, and was entertained by the 'boss.' At dinner we had some cold turkey, of which I expressed my appreciation. 'Was it a tame one or a wild one?' I asked. 'A wild one,' said the 'boss.' Then he told me this story, swearing by all the pagan gods that it was true. 

'The extraordinary thing about that turkey,' he remarked, 'is that two days before Christmas I was going out to the Bosworth, 30 miles distant, in my buck board, and was taking Jones with me. As I was leaving, the wife called out, 'I wish you would get me a turkey for Christmas dinner.' 'All right,' said I, and away we went. 

The heat was intense, and when we reached the Bosworth waterhole we camped for lunch. It must have been about 145 degrees in the shade.  Jones took the 'billy,' filled it with water, and made the tea. No, he didn't have to light a fire; the water was already boiling. 

I saw four wild ducks flying over the waterhole. Picking up my gun, I fired. Two of them fell on the rocks, and Jones rushed to get them. He was only just in time, for the heat of the rocks had cooked them, and in another moment or two they would have been burnt. 

'While we were enjoying our meal, Jones called my attention to three turkeys flying overhead in the direction of Oakden Hills station. I made a rapid mental calculation of their velocity, picked up my gun, and let drive at the middle bird, a fine bustard. I saw a few feathers drop out of his tail, put my gun down, and said to Jones, 'That's all right.' 

'We got home on Christmas morning, and I just had time for a bath before dinner. Coming in I found a beautiful roast turkey on the table. Turning to my wife, I asked, 'Where did you get the turkey?'  'Oh, John,' she replied, 'when Sarah was coming out of the kitchen with the dinner things the day you left here, the turkey fell right down on the tray, and broke all the crockery.' 

'Well, that was a surprise for me. I thought the darned thing would fall about the woodheap.'

— 'Old Norwester,' Medindie.

An Almost Forgotten Crime

Shortly before Christmas Day, 1863, one of the most callous murderers Australia has produced walked to his doom. He was an inhuman brute, steeped in bestiality, who showed no remorse for his terrible crimes. But he paid the extreme penalty for his misdeeds. 

About 75 years ago a man and wife named Robinson arrived in Australia from Ireland. With them came Jane McManus, a young Irish girl, a typical Irish colleen, pretty and vivacious. 

After a time the Robinsons drifted to Salt Creek, where they took over a wayside hotel. Jane McManus was employed as maid. There came a day when Robinson was reported missing. A search was made, and several days later his body was found at a place known as Murdering Hill. His head had been battered in and his throat cut. 

Police investigations followed, and it was found that Robinson had set out for a ride in company with a man known as Malachi Martin, and had never been seen alive again, Martin admitted that he had accompanied Robinson, but declared that they had separated at a point near where the body was found. Despite the fact that Martin had an evil character and a bad police record, there was not sufficient evidence to connect him with the crime. 

Not long after the murder, Martin married the widow of the murdered man. The couple did not live together for long, however, for soon Martin gave out that his wife had taken her family and disappeared, and he had no idea where they had gone. Jane McManus had remained in the employ of the hostel, and this left Martin and the luckless girl alone in the isolated house. 

A few days later a party of aborigines who were camping in the vicinity had their attention attracted by the unusual behavior of a dog which had been owned by Robinson. The animal suddenly formed a peculiar habit of howling and trotting backwards and forwards between the house and a patch of scrub. So frequently did the animal make the trip that it had soon worn a distinct pad through the grass. 

Prompted by curiosity, the natives decided to follow the trail. It led them through heavy undergrowth to a wombat hole. Jammed down the mouth of the hole was the body of the Irish girl. The police were notified, and the body was removed to Woods Well, where an inquest was held. It was evident that the girl had been brutally handled and then murdered.

Martin was immediately arrested. He denied all knowledge of the crime, but evidence was strongly against him. In the hotel a cupboard was found to contain distinct traces of blood, while on the cupboard door was the imprint of a bloodstained hand. It was concluded that Martin hid the body of the murdered girl in the cupboard before removing it to the wombat hole. It was thought that Martin was responsible for other crimes. 

Several travellers had disappeared mysteriously from the hotel. It was rumored that their weighted bodies had been carried down the creek in a boat and slipped silently overboard. 

Martin was taken to Adelaide for his trial. He was found guilty, and hanged at the Adelaide Gaol. The remains of the unfortunate girl were interred in the lonely Coorong. The old hotel where the murder occurred is still standing. The cupboard where the body was hidden still bears distinct traces of bloodstains inside, while on the door the outline of a bloodstained hand can be plainly seen. The cupboard has been painted many times during the 70 years which have passed since it held its terrible contents, but for some strange reason the fingerprints still show through. Occasionally the attention of a visitor to Woods Well is drawn to the lonely grave of the Irish girl who met such a terrible fate in a strange new land.

— A.H.B.

A Bush Thrill

He was my old mate years ago in the bush, and on the Diggings. On this particular occasion we had a small contract together, and I am sorry to say we could not agree about the way it should be done and so we quarrelled and Fred went off in a temper to the camp, left me working on my own. 

However, I pegged away and almost forgot him, knowing he would come round sooner or later. An hour passed, and I felt a bit anxious, and looked up from my work. Judge of my horror and consternation when I saw Fred come out of the scrub close to me apparently covered in blood, a large sheath knife in his hand, also bloodstained and held close to his throat. I dropped my tools and rushed up to him exclaiming, "O, my God, Fred, what have you done?"

"Ah," he gurgled, "it's you that's brought me to this."

 Then I grabbed him and jerked his head up, only to find that I had been cleverly and grossly deceived by red flannel artistically arranged all over the bush actor. A roar of delighted laughter from Fred did not improve matters. 

I hardly spoke to him for a week, and although I forgave him I have never forgotten the shock I received at the time.— G. A. Payne, Marino Rocks.

Experiences With Blacks

A friend of mine who conducted a business in a West Coast township some years ago, had some interesting experiences with the blacks. 

This businessman always distributed all damaged tinned foods or decayed fruit and vegetables among the natives. Badly damaged tinned meat or fish, quite unfit for white men to eat, would be relished by the blacks, who would not show any ill effects. 

As the officers of overseas boats calling at this port were very anxious to witness a blacks' corroboree, my friend approached some of the natives, with the result that they arranged a big corroboree. As the moon began to rise, amidst the mysterious stillness of bush, the painted and awesomely decorated natives emerged from the scrub into a little plain chosen for the occasion. 

The blacks came out in single file, the only sound being the flop, flop of their bare feet as they marched out to take their places. Small fires were arranged around the outskirts of the plain to form a circle, marking the boundary. 

For music, the gins beat a huge blunt bone in a scooped basin shaped hole in the ground; this produced a noise resembling a drum beating. The men accompanied this bone beating music with a weird chant. As the natives sang or chanted, they danced, all perfectly in time and in step. 

My informer, dressed in a fancy dress costume representing a Chinaman and quietly walking into their circle, tried to imitate their chanting and dancing. The natives knew him instantly, and amidst much laughter, pressed closely around him examining his costume, laughing and talking excitedly amongst themselves all the time. 

Two gins had a fierce fight one day about who was really queen of the tribe. The elder gin declared that, as her husband was king of the tribe, she, as his wife, was rightful queen. However, the younger gin still disputed and claimed queen as her title. A hand to-hand fight, with hair pulling, scratching, and screeching, was the result. 

One of the blacks, who was a rabbit trapper, returned to his camp unexpectedly to find his black friend in the trappers' camp. A fight started, and before long the whole encampment had joined in, each black's friends taking sides. As it developed into a serious battle the residents called out the special constable. He in his turn called upon my friend and his companion to accompany him to the scene of the trouble. 

On the white men's arrival the riot stopped, the main offenders fleeing to the bush. The native who started the fight was arrested after a long chase, and later was sentenced to a term of imprisonment.— M.J.B. 

Man Who Was A Woman 

Quarter of a century ago, when shipping communication with the then Wild West Coast was in small vessels which ran once a week (weather permitting), I travelled with a party of pioneers in a tiny steamer to Arno Bay. The steward offered to show me round the ship, and, as I had not been on a steamer before, I accepted. My sister came with me. When the steward got us away in a quiet place he began to torment me, and I threatened to call my husband. Somehow I got the impression that the steward was not a man, I whispered this to my sister, but she laughed at me. 

Some time after I had settled on the Coast I mentioned the matter to my husband and his partner, again expressing my doubt of the sex of the seaman. But they, too, scoffed at me, so I said nothing more. 

A month after this another woman friend came over. She also said she thought the steward was a woman in man's attire 'What makes you think that?' I asked. 'The way he handled my baby,' she replied. I knew she was right, but I held my tongue. 

Eighteen months later I went to Cowell for a holiday. The daughter of the house where I was staying went to Adelaide for a holiday. When she came back she related an experience with the same steward. 'Such a funny man,' she said. 'He tried to make love to me, but I told him he was a woman in man's clothes. He answered, 'That's a jolly good joke.' Nevertheless my friends continued to laugh at me whenever I mentioned my belief in the fellow's sex. 

Then one day, while the boat was at Port Adelaide, this steward fell down a hatchway, and broke his leg. He was taken to hospital, and there his sex was discovered— a woman. She had been employed as a man on the boat for fifteen years, and no one had discovered her sex before. — 'Light Sleeper,' Verran.