15 November 1934

SECRET OF SCOTTYS LONELY GRAVE 

When Love Failed To Find A Way Out

On the side of the road as one drives from Kapunda to Marrabel is a small wayside grave with a weather-beaten headstone. It marks the resting place of 'Scotty'; just plain Scotty. If one asks any of the old-timers in the district for information on the subject, they reply vaguely: 'Oh, he must have been a swaggie, I suppose.' However Scotty was never a swaggie. 

Craig Scott was his real name. [no death records found! - Ed.] He was a native of Lancashire who came to Australia in the early days and worked in the mines, finally ending up at Burra. 

In the heyday of the Burra mine there were many wine-shops on the track to Adelaide, which were typical English taverns, having small gardens and barmaids to attract thirsty way-farers. 

The Hog's Head, owned by Jim Fitzpatrick, a recent arrival from the Old Country, was the most popular tavern on the route. Lancashiremen and Cumberlanders met regularly at the Hog's Head, and its fame grew far and wide. 

Scotty proved a reliable and trustworthy man, and eventually became paymaster at the mine, making weekly trips to Adelaide for the company. He drank but little, and seldom were his two beautiful greys seen tied up to the hitching rail of a wine shop. He had a passion for music and was a wonderful singer. As a lad and young man he had been a member of several leading Lancashire choirs, and had often appeared at concerts. 

Somehow it came to his ears that the Hog's Head possessed an excellent piano, and one evening while returning from Adelaide he heard it being played. He, therefore, decided to enter the parlor and indulge in a little social music. He was welcomed the minute he entered the door. They had all heard of him and, being a fellow countryman, he was made doubly welcome. A man at the piano immediately struck up a popular air and Scotty's clear tenor voice rang through the room. It was more than an hour before he got any respite. 

Every one wanted some special song sung. The publican, Fitzpatrick, prevailed on him to sing 'Do Ye Ken John Peel' as the final item, and so well was it rendered that many a weather-beaten face softened and eyes dimmed as he sang those immortal verses. Scotty was the hero of the hour, and he felt pleased with himself as he drove home in the moon light. He decided that he would call at the Hog's Head again. 

He enjoyed singing. It reminded him of home and the girl, Jean Moreton, he had loved so dearly when young. If only the wanderlust had not got into his blood he would have gone back to his first and only love, way home in Lancashire. Still these were wasted thoughts; he was a man now, still fairly young but not attractive, and he had seen his share of life. Pleasant times and good company were all that he wanted now. He would certainly visit the Hog's Head again next week. 

So he did, and again Fitzpatrick welcomed him. It was a wet and stormy night, and there were few present at the inn. He sang a few songs for them playing his own accompaniment. Gradually they took themselves off and Scotty, having made up his mind to stay the night, was left to himself with the piano and the fire. He played softly and sang some of the airs of his younger days; songs he had sung together with Jean in the choirs. 

As he sang a voice joined in— a voice that was sweet and matched his own. It was a woman singing, and she was entering the room. He watched the keys carefully and their voices blended in the finale most beautifully. As he finished playing he swung around on his seat and faced the singer. Was he dreaming? No, it was reality. 

'Craig,' she faltered, 'has fate had a hand in this? I thought you were dead or lost.' It was Jean Moreton, now a woman, but still as lovely as she had been in her girlhood days. 

'Jean, Jean. Tell me. You are now Mrs. Fitzpatrick, are you not?' he asked. She nodded her head, but her thoughts were with his, back in the days of their youth. All their vows, their promises and dreams came to them in a flash. For a while neither spoke, guessing the other's thoughts. They hesitated and were lost. In a few seconds she was in his outstretched arms and all their love with its youthful fervor returned. 

But what of their positions? Both realised the folly of it all, but, as Scotty remarked, 'Love will find a way.' 

Unfortunately love did not find the expected way out, but Scotty regularly stayed for the night at the Hog's Head, and met Jean Fitzpatrick whenever possible without raising her husband's suspicion. Both loved one another dearly, yet there seemed no happy ending in view. They met as frequently as possible and finally Scotty suggested a way out. He would alter his day of travel, and when all was ready she would leave with him in the dead of night. In the gold centres of Victoria they would make a home for themselves and start life anew. Their love was not to be denied. 

The time for their departure duly arrived, and one clear night Scotty waited with his two greys saddled in readiness, a mile from the Hog's Head on the Adelaide toad. As the moon rose Jean came to him prepared for the journey into a new life. Scotty held Jack, his quietest horse, and assisted her into the saddle. Then he mounted his own horse and they commenced to canter off slowly together. 

Before Scotty's horse had cantered a dozen strides, however, it stumbled, and he was thrown over its head and lay senseless on the ground. Jean reined her horse and ran to her lover's aid. He seemed terribly quiet. She tried to lift him, but he fell back limply, his head rolling about strangely, in agony she felt for his pulse. There was none. Another close look and she saw the terrible tragedy that had befallen her lover. His neck was broken and he was beyond all human aid. 

What should she do? In the stillness of the night a thousand and one frantic thoughts raced through her mind. Had her absence been noticed? Did anyone suspect their intrigue? 

Finally she made up her mind and left the dead man and the horses but removed the side-saddle and bridle from Jack. These she threw into a small but deep creek, which held her secret for all time. Quietly, she walked back to the inn and unnoticed entered her room, spending the night in misery and tears. 

Her life was now without its fire and joy, but she secured one tender link with the past— Scotty's two greys, Jack and Jill. Till the end of their days she tended them faithfully, and they alone knew her secret and sorrows. Often when out riding on them she would pass Scotty's grave, and unrestrained tears would flow as her memory recalled the man who had loved her so truly and faithfully.— 'Wayfarer.'

The Lakes Of Robe

The South-East of South Australia is justly famed for the beauty of its lakes. Many of the most beautiful of these are situated near Robe. 

When ducks are plentiful, excellent shooting is to be had at some of the lakes, many of which are very boggy. Naturally, when ducks are shot in such places it is a difficult matter to get them out. As a general rule, if there is not a strong wind to blow the ducks within reach, a well-trained water-dog is the only chance. 

A story is told of one of Robe's old identities who recently died. Many years ago he was shooting at the Boggy Lake which, as its name implies, is particularly treacherous. He returned to camp with several black ducks. His friend who had been shooting at another lake enquired, 'Did you have much difficulty in getting them out?' 'Oh, no,' was the reply. 'It was a bit too boggy for my old dog, so I stripped off and went in myself.' 

At a small lake, usually referred to as the Bottle Lake, several men used to camp for a few weeks every year. It is said that eventually this lake became so full of bottles that a number of the townspeople signed a petition begging them to find a larger lake. 

A deep and very beautiful lake which is passed when entering Robe retains the name of Felmongery Lake despite the fact that several persons have at tempted to rename it. The lake takes its name from days when Robe was an important port. Wool was washed in the lake before being shipped, to overseas markets. 

Within a stone-throw of the Robe jetty is Butler's Lake, on the edge of which stands a house which at one time served as a governor's summer residence. In the early days many a sorrowful man must have gazed upon this beautiful lake, for it was past here that prisoners were taken to the grim old gaol, of which the ruins still stand on a nearby hill. 

A number of early colonists visualised the time when a channel would be cut through to allow shipping to enter from the sea which is only separated from Butler's Lake by a strip of land less than a hundred yards in width.' Such dreams, however, have long since passed into the realm of for gotten things. [realised in 1964]. 

A chain of large lakes border the road from Robe to Beachport. The nearest of these to Robe, Lake Eliza, is very salt. Sometimes during a dry season hundreds of tons of beautifully clean salt collect on its shores. At such times the salt forms like sheets of glass beneath the salt-saturated water. Numerous islets of salt form in the lake, producing an ice-like effect that is very beautiful. About 60 years ago, a prisoner who had escaped from the Robe gaol, attempted to cover his tracks by walking through Lake Eliza. He became bogged and perished miserably. When his body was discovered some time later, it was found to be in a perfect state of preservation owing to the chemical properties of the water.— A.H.B.

Clever Fox

A well-known farmer of the Millicent district tells the following story which he swears is quite true. 

One day when out riding he saw a fox run into a small but thick patch of ferns. Hurriedly calling his dogs, he rode to the spot where Reynard had disappeared. The dogs circled in and out through the ferns, but found nothing. 

As far as the farmer could see there were, ho holes into which the fox could have escaped. He was positive that the animal had not left the ferns yet, obviously, it was not there. 

Thoroughly mystified, the farmer rode on. He had proceeded some distance when he felt something brush lightly against his back. He turned round and there was the fox riding behind him on the horse. The farmer was so astounded that the animal, realising that it had been observed, jumped off and escaped before he thought to call his dogs.