1 November 1934

NATIVE SHOT FOR MURDER NEVER COMMITTED 

Strange Happening At Tumby Bay In Early Days

One of the most remarkable cases in the history of the South Australian Police Force was the shooting of a native during investigation of a "murder" which was never committed. 

This happened at Tumby Bay, nearly 90 years ago when South Australia was less than 10 years old, and natives were often a menace to white settlement. The relations between the natives and the white men, especially on Eyre Peninsula, were anything but harmonious at that time, and the settlers were constantly losing their stock through the depredations of the Aborigines. 

At the time that Constable Prewitt and another officer were sent out to Happy Valley, about 40 miles from Port Lincoln, "to report on the number of Aborigines" there, the settlement at Port Lincoln was concerned with the attempted murder of a shepherd, and these constables were instructed also to make enquiries about this matter, especially from an Aborigine named "M-." 

Reaching Tumby Bay, the officers were dismayed to find a small vessel, with its anchor chain over the side, beached. At a deserted native camp on the beach, which had been in use for a considerable time, leaves of a nautical book, trunks, cordage, knives, and spears were found, as well as blood stained trousers and socks. Small trees nearby had been cut with a small axe. It was obvious that these articles had come from the vessel, which was ashore. 

On closer Investigation, it was found that the ship, the Kate, was entirely undamaged, but had been ransacked. No one was on board, and the only chest which had been allowed to remain had been broken open. The district was notoriously unhealthy for white men, and at the camp at Happy Valley, robbery and bloodshed had occurred within a few weeks. 

Jumping to the conclusion that the crew had been murdered and the vessel then pillaged, the constables lost no time in making for Happy Valley, and when they arrived they found one of the natives in possession of a case similar to those found on the beach. 

The police attempted to arrest this native, Padulka, but, according to a police report, he resisted arrest, and as the constables feared that the other natives would step in to help the prisoner, the police shot him dead after he had seized his captor's gun. 

The story as told by Charley, one of the Aborigines in the camp, was different. He said that the police "sneaked on them," and when he tried to show that he was a friendly native, a gun was levelled at him. The party did not in any way resist, he said, but the police fired point blank, and left Padulka to die by the camp fire. 

Even Eyre, who was the strongest advocate for the rights of the natives, did not believe Charley's story. His opinion was that no body of police would fire on friendly and unresisting natives. He believed that the constables, when resisted, fired, fearing for their own lives. 

Numerous letters passed between the police sergeant at Port Lincoln and the Commissioner of Police on the justification of the shooting, and eventually the Commissioner and the Advocate General (rather more hesitatingly) agreed that the constables were in the right, and that the shooting was necessary. 

Meanwhile, nothing more had been done concerning the fate of the Kate's crew. In an endeavor to fix a date on which the pillaging took place at Tumby Bay, expeditions were sent to neighboring settlements to find out whether the Kate had visited there. 

A party which was sent to Thistle Island, a few miles from Port Lincoln, received a big surprise when they found every member of the crew there, safe and sound. They had left the Kate, they said, to sleep the night on Thistle Island. The boat had broken its anchor chain before morning and drifted with the current up the gulf until it had beached itself 40 miles away at Tumby Bay—C.V.H.

Law, But Not Justice

In the early days of the Burra copper mine, carters of ore to the rail head at Dry Creek always had a full return load of goods, one of the chief items being the liquor supply for the hotels. 

Rum was the most popular drink in those days, and only fairly sober chaps had the contract for the hotels. 

Among them was an old Irishman whom we will call Grady. He was a very shrewd and seasoned carter, who had a good team, and always ran to time. For more than a year Grady carted his ore and returned with liquor, giving every satisfaction to his employers; but as time went on and a very hot summer presented itself, he found that the many wine shops along the route offered him relief when the heat and his thirst became unendurable.

Before long he lost his reputation for punctuality. Instead of running to time he turned up late, spending hours in the wine shops. As time went on he found his capacity for drink increasing. He also discovered that he could spend all his money on drink on the way down, and get credit on the way back. This was a very convenient arrangement, only that it did not work for any length of time, and soon he drank that much that he looked for credit on the way down and back as well. The result was that he soon exhausted his credit. 

The cargo of grog, the carriage of which meant his living, then proved too tempting, and Grady soon began to tamper with it. He managed to pay his debts at the wine shops, and drank at them on the way down; but coming back, he passed them with a contemptuous air. 

The habit grew on Grady, and after a time he became the 'mug of the trail,' in the language of the sundowners. Anyone who wanted a lift simply stopped him and offered to do the driving. This suited the old fellow. He would have a good drink and sleep until he neared Burra. Then the sundowner would be chased off the waggon and Grady, only half drunk, would deliver his goods. 

It did not take long for his customers to notice a shortage in the rum jars, and a trap was set accordingly. Grady was found drunk by the police a little way out of Burra with a sundowner driving the team. A police man made an examination of the rum jars and found a lot far from full. This, together with a strong smell of rum exuding from the drunken teamster, decided the issue. He was asked to appear before the court to answer a charge of having stolen the rum. 

But his Irish cunning came to the rescue. He searched the town and eventually found the tramp who had driven his team on the day of his arrest. Next he secured a list of the other teamsters who had seen the tramp on his waggon. With the tramp and teamsters following him, Grady went along to the courthouse to face his charge, and to the surprise of the magistrate and his accusers, he pleaded not guilty. 

After a lengthy opening by the prosecution, he was asked to state his defence. First, he produced the tramp, who swore that Grady had not touched a drop of the rum cargo on the way up from Dry Creek. Next, all the teamsters swore that the tramp had accompanied him for the entire journey; even the policeman had to admit having seen the tramp on the waggon. When asked to account for his drunken condition, Grady smilingly stated that he was not drunk; it was only a touch of the sun. 

Asked if he had anything further to say, Grady proved himself an eloquent pleader. For two hours he addressed the court, pointing out over and over again that a dog could not be shot for a bad name, and what could not be proved was not evidence. 

He concluded by asking his accusers to swear that they were certain that the rum jars were full when they were loaded on his waggon. They could not do that, and the magistrate had no option but to dismiss the case. Grady did not get off entirely unpunished, however, for the enraged publicans immediately transferred their business elsewhere. — 'Campfire Comrade.'

The Happy Abo.

I had often read of the happy dis position of the Australian Aborigine, and I had an opportunity of seeing this side of the nature of the natives demonstrated when I visited the McDonnell Ranges in quest of gold more than 30 years ago. Their laughter in their camps at night rang out frequently and spontaneously, and it was evident that as long as food was reasonably plentiful they were content. 

I was particularly impressed by this joy of life on one occasion near Winnecke's Depot, where great hopes were entertained of a really payable goldfield at that time. I had gone out a few miles looking for our horses, which had strayed away from their regular beat. At one stage of my search as I stood listening intently for the sound of their bell, I heard in the distance a ringing laugh. 

Wondering who was extracting so much enjoyment out of life, I moved through the scrub towards where the sounds had come from, and soon heard them repeated much more loudly. 

Eventually I came to a sheltered spot, where, peering through the bush, I could see a young native standing on the trunk of a fallen tree. In his hand he held a long cord, to which a 'hummer' was attached. By swinging this round his head very rapidly he was extracting a loud whining hum, and after each of his own performances he would stop and laugh immoderately. 

He had no audience, and when I revealed myself he seemed to lose interest in the business. However, I persuaded him to repeat it for my edification. I wondered for how many thousands of years this form of amusement had been handed down from father to son during the long history of the aborigines in Australia, and it was with a pang of regret that I realised that these primitive people must inevitably give way to the white race, and ultimately vanish from the earth. — ''Ekwah.'

Ghost Of Cape Willoughby Lighthouse

Some years ago the keeper on duty at night at Cape Willoughby lighthouse heard a scream, and then heard his came called. He started to go downstairs, as he thought it was one of his mates, when a tapping attracted his attention. Glancing up at the balcony window, he saw a hideous face staring at him. 

As the wall of the lighthouse was believed to be unclimbable, the keeper naturally thought that he had seen a ghost. Tumbling down the stairs, he rushed outside and then collapsed. The shock caused a nervous breakdown, and it was many months before he could resume work. 

The 'ghost' proved to be a sailor who had climbed the lightning conductor on to the balcony, with the idea of giving the keeper a start, and then having a talk with him, never thinking of the shock he might give him.

— "Sou'-wester."