10 May 1934

CATTLE DROVING IN THE '14 DROUGHT 

EXPERIENCES IN THE MURRAY COUNTRY

In 1914, 'the drought year,' I was working as head stockman at 'Gurra,' about four miles above Berri.  I, along with a couple more drovers, used to make periodical trips all over the place, after sheep and cattle — sometimes into the 'Never Never' country in New South Wales, and Queensland. 

I remember one trip. The boss said, "I want you and Chisholm to leave tomorrow morning for Mr. Roy Morphett's place, about 10 miles from Waikerie, to lift 130 head of cattle." 

Next morning we set off. When we got to Waikerie a more miserable lot of cattle I never saw. There was hardly a blade of grass anywhere. We reached Overland Corner the first night, just outside the Corner there is some fair plain country. We drove the cattle through the gate, camped in a big hollow, and hobbled out our horses. 

Next morning we explored the country, and discovered there was some good bush. So we decided to halt for a day to let the cattle have a picking. We drove the cattle out on the plain and left them, while we had something to eat ourselves. The plain was an area of about 200 acres, fringed with scrub. 

The cattle began to wander, so I decided to walk round them. A big roan stag began pawing the ground, scattering the dirt in all directions. I kept going, not taking much notice until he started to come towards me, roaring. Then I decided to make for the nearest tree. 

I got there just ahead of him, but he kept me a prisoner for two hours, until my mate shifted him with the two dogs. Next time I went round them I took my horse and a whip. 

Later in the day I noticed one or two of the cattle looking a bit sick. Next morning, to our amazement, fifteen of them were dead. We were at a loss to understand the reason. But we soon found out. 

There is a bush there which grows about 2 ft. 6 in. high, very much like tobacco bush. It seems to grow better in dry seasons. I have since learned that it is good feed for stock when there is other feed about, but when they are empty, they gorge at this, and it often kills them. That, evidently, is what happened to ours. 

We walked into Overland Corner, borrowed a couple of butchers' knives, and had to stay another day skinning the beasts. We got the hides off them and next day arrived at our destination with the mob. We had to make a trip back with salt to salt the hides and fetch them home. The boss didn't mind, as he got more for the hides than he paid for the cattle. — Murray Weaver.

Early Tragedies Of Baker's Gully

One would scarcely look for records of tragedy in that quiet corner of the hills known as Baker's Gully, not far from Kangarilla. But old residents recall several which occurred in the early days. 

The first was that of Charles Whitlock, which happened about October, 1861. [29-Mar-1861, age 53- Ed.] He was my half-sister's husband, and a convivial soul, apparently the last person one would suspect of suicidal tendencies. Yet he took his life under strange circumstances. 

He had been spending the evening with some friends at Kangarilla, and, after taking a parting glass of wine, re-marked jocularly, "Well, boys, now I'm going home to hang myself." The company laughed, Whitlock with them, and then he took his departure. A couple of hours later his wife entered the house, and found Whitlock's body hanging from a beam. He was quite dead when she cut him down. 

Another case was that of a German settler. I think his name was Eiseman, but I am not sure of the spelling. [Philip Isermann, 19 Sep 1860, age 45.- Ed.] He used to go to Adelaide to work, and in those days he had to walk. His wife always knew what time to expect him home. So one evening when he failed to return as usual, she raised an alarm, and search parties scoured the country for him. 

The hills, then covered with thick scrub, were very different from what they are now, and it was the easiest thing in the world to get lost. The searchers found he had been in Clarendon the night before, and evidently had become lost on the way home. 

They traced him to Mr. Young's house (where Mr. Cecil Smart lives now) on the north side of the lower end of the gully. There he had acted strangely, and left after being given some tea. That was the last trace of him, and after eleven days the search was abandoned. 

Mr. Baker, the first man who lived in the gully, and from whom it took its name, had two sons. Will and Tom. One night, some time later, they were out after 'possums, when Tom saw a figure swaying in the breeze, which he promptly identified as a "ghost." The boys bolted in terror for home. 

Next morning a party went out and found the body of the missing man suspended from the limb of a tree by a handkerchief, in those days a yard long. They cut him down and buried him at once in the churchyard of the Methodist Cemetery at Kangarilla, His wife was merely told that he was dead and buried. It was not until her baby was born, five months later, that she was told of his suicide. — E. Dunmill, Baker's Gully.

Friend In Need

I have had many strange requests on the road, but perhaps the most peculiar was recently made to me when motoring from Adelaide to the South-East. 

I was travelling along a lonely road when a clergyman beckoned for me to stop. He informed me that in a quaint little chapel near at hand were a young couple waiting to be married. They had no witnesses, as their friends had failed to arrive. 

I readily consented to act as a witness for the happy event, and when the ceremony was over I told the bride groom I was on my way to the South East. As the newly married couple were spending their honeymoon at Mt. Gambier, to save them a long wait for the train, I gave them a lift to their destination. This kind of experience would probably happen to a motorist once in a lifetime.

Early Records Lost

Few South Australians realise that many of their old State documents, which now would be priceless, were destroyed through an act of jealousy. 

In 1841 Lady Franklin, wife of the then Governor of Tasmania, visited Adelaide and was a guest of Governor Gawler. In order to accommodate Lady Franklin and her suite, Governor Gawler had the official papers and documents, which were kept in his office, put in the old Government House, which stood near where the present stables are situated. 

A few nights later a fire occurred in the old buildings, and the priceless records of early official transactions of South Australia were destroyed. 

A former guest of Governor Gawler's, who had had to leave when Lady Franklin arrived, was charged at the Adelaide Police Court with having wilfully set fire to the old structure, but was discharged through lack of evidence. There is little doubt, however, that angered by his ejection, and jealous of Lady Franklin, he did the deed which robbed South Australia of its earliest history. 

Of later years one of the early pioneers wrote her memoirs of South Australia, and sent them to London for publication. While in the publisher's hands the manuscript mysteriously disappeared and was not found again. It was thought that influence had been brought to bear, as the history of many prominent people had been there recorded. Later the publisher tried to make good the loss by a gift of valuable jewellery to the writer.

— Wynnis J Hughes, Wisanger.

Shutting Him Up

In the north where towns are few and far between, the men from the outback generally make a day of it whenever rations run short and heat and thirst become unendurable. 

In a certain little town boasting a store, a general hardware shop, post office, and pub, Saturday afternoon was the usual day off. All the hands about would gather at the pub for the afternoon drinking, and betting on the races. 

Jack X was a burly chap, who batched on his own on a small farm ten miles out of the town. He drove in regularly every Saturday morning in an old square radiator model Ford, about which he never tired of boasting. 

As soon as he'd got his provisions, he'd drive to the pub and start drinking. Then he'd start talking and everyone present would get a turn. Jack would bail one up in a corner and his auditor would have to listen to his arguments till he got dry. Then he'd amble off to the bar and have another. 

The annoying part of his conversation was his arms. He'd wave them about when talking, now and again hitting something or knocking a glass over. On top of this, he'd always answer his questions for you. 

One day, when Jack was on the spree, he bailed up old Max, a German charcoal burner, and gave him about two hours of his best. Jack wouldn't be contradicted or slighted. He was very quick and handy with his fists. Poor Max got a bad doing, and, as soon as he was free, he walked off to his shack, three miles out of the town on the bank of an old dry river. 

After closing time I prepared to mooch off too, but Jack spotted me. My camp was on his way. "Come on, sonny, have a ride in the only Ford in the north." There was no dodging him, so I crept in front with him. We had to cross the old river bed on the way home. Down the south side we drove. Jack talking like a gramophone. "Isn't she safe? Aren't the brake good? Don't she ride well?" and so on. 

Across the river bed he put the Ford in top gear and roared up the other side a long slope and a twisty track. "Don't she pull well. Hills are nothing to her." Near the top of the slope Lizzie was just doing it at about six miles an hour, but still in top. "Doing it easy, isn't she?" and Jack spat contemptuously out of the side of the car. But as he turned his head Jack pulled the wheel the wrong way, and down we went, a drop off the track of three feet into loose sand. I flew clear, and landed in a clump of blue burrs. 

But Jack was stuck under the Ford. The car door was resting on his neck, with his body and arms inside the front compartment. I scrambled over to him, just in time to scrape the sand from under his neck to prevent him choking. The pressure was on his windpipe, not enough to cut his wind off, but sufficient to prevent him from speaking. 

I tried to lift the car, but it was beyond me. There was no handy rail about, the river being devoid of trees. So I trotted off to Max's joint a quarter of a mile up the river. Max was home. I explained the position, and asked him to come along with a crowbar. The old chap didn't hurry himself unduly. No doubt he was still sore over the tongue-banging Jack had given him that afternoon. 

We reached the wreck, and I was relieved to see Jack breathing heavily, with his eyes wide open. Max looked at him and said: — "Dat's jost vot dat talkative old fool would do! Vell, ve see vot ve do." He shoved the long bar under the car and started to lever her up. 

As soon as the pressure was off his neck Jack started, "You old fool, you've shoved that so-and-so of a bar into the front cushion," and away he roared. Max looked at me, and said, "Boy, he ain't had enough." With that he let the car down on Jack's neck again. Jack was forcibly reduced to silence while Max strolled around telling me what a dreadful thing it was to have to listen to an idiot, and a "drunken jab berguts." 

After a while he again stuck the bar under the car and grinned to himself as he heard the springs creaking he put his weight on. As soon as the pressure was easy enough Jack commenced again, using a lot of language. 

Max calmly said, "I tink he vont a bit more." Down went the Ford again, and this time Max slowly stuffed his pipe and sat on the upturned car to make matters more uncomfortable for the victim. Slowly Jack's breath, became shorter and shorter, until I got the wind up. Just as he was choking we put the bar under, and, using our strength to the fullest, got the car clear and tossed her over. And over and over she rolled down the sandy slope to finish up in the creek bed on all fours. 

While Jack was getting his wind we took our departure. The Ford wasn't damaged much, as Jack got her going and passed us like a hurricane further down the road. It is a fact that Jack X is still as garrulous as ever when on the spree, but he's never since bailed up old Max, or as much as spoken a word to him at any time. And it's years since the incident occurred.— 'Camp Fire Comrade,' Ngapala.