1 August 1935

TRAGIC SPEARING OF SON OF PORT LINCOLN PIONEER 

How Frank Hawson's Bravery Is Remembered

The tragic death of Frank Hawson, the 10-year-old son of a pioneer of Port Lincoln, shows how little the natives of Eyre Peninsula could be trusted. In the early days of the colony they were openly hostile and, even when the settlers were disposed to treat them well, they returned this trust by frequent attacks and an occasional murder.

Henry Hawson, the father of Frank, was a man of independent means who arrived in Australia in his own ship, the Abeona, in 1837. After visiting various Australian ports, he decided to take up land at Port Lincoln, believing that its splendid harbor would eventually make it the capital of South Australia. With his wife, six sons and seven daughters, he lived at Little Swamp, about five miles west of Port Lincoln. 

In October, 1840, 10-year-old Frank was sent with his brother, Edward, to an outpost of the station, about nine miles from the township. Edward left him one morning to go to Port Lincoln, and at ten o'clock about a dozen natives approached the hut, demanding food. Frank gave them all he had —bread and rice — but they were not satisfied and clamored for more. 

As they became more insistent and aggressive, he closed the door and fastened it, standing outside, guarding it with his gun by his side and a small sword in his hand, with which he hoped to frighten them. A native child went up to him and handed him a spear. Shortly afterwards the natives threw two spears which struck him in the chest. He did not fall, but took up his gun and fired. He hit one of the natives in the hand, and they made off, only to return within a few minutes.  He raised his gun again, and they disappeared. 

He was in a desperate plight with two spears, seven ft. long, in his chest. He did not lie down to await help, but attempted to saw and cut them through. When this attempt failed, he tried to walk to his father's house at Port Lincoln. He was too weak to walk far, so he sat on the ground, made a fire, and tried to burn off the ends of the spears. In this position he was found by his brother when he returned at 10 o'clock that night, eleven or twelve hours after Frank had been speared. 

Edward immediately sawed off the spear ends and took him to Port Lincoln on horseback, where they arrived about four hours later. Dr. Harvey examined him, but found that both spears were barbed, and as one had passed through to the boy's back, he was of the opinion that any attempt to remove it might prove fatal. The surgeon of the ship L'Aglae was also called in, and he agreed with Dr. Harvey that nothing could be done to save the boy's life, and after lingering for some time he died. 

The little fellow was buried in the mallee, about 60 yards from the house, in what is now Percival street, Kirton Point. A fence was built about this little grave, but, in course of time, bushfires burnt it down and mallee grew round it so that few knew where young Hawson had been buried. 

About 1903, however, the Port Lincoln Progress Committee thought that it would be appropriate if a memorial were erected to the memory of this young pioneer. Permission was obtained to exhume the body and bury it again at Kirton Point under an impressive monument. The actual site of the grave was much in doubt, and plans were made to dig near an old well, but at the last moment, Mr. David Mundy, who had seen the grave before the bush-fire had swept over it, was able to point out the exact spot. Here the coffin, in a state of decay, was found after 70 years. 

The Hawson memorial, 10 ft. high, of granite and marble, which was unveiled on March 30, 1911, is well-known at Port Lincoln. The following inscription on it perpetuates young Hawson's bravery:— 

"Erected by public subscription through the Port Lincoln Progress Committee, in memory of Frank Hawson, aged 10 years, who was speared by the blacks, October 5, 1840. Reinterred under the monument. March 30, 1911. Although only a lad, he died a hero. Gone, but not forgotten. At rest." — H. 

[We need to accept that this article was written at a time when (understandable) outrage about these settler deaths persisted, with little attempt to understand why, and the overall context of dispossession.  It is only in recent decades that greater recognition has been given to these events, and attempts to understand the Aboriginal perspective. - Ed.] 

How Charlie Restored Order 

Charlie, the men's cook on a station in the South-East, was a strange, morose individual who had never been heard to laugh nor seen to smile. Hanging to the mantelpiece in the cook house he kept his razor strop. Each night, just before retiring, he would strop his razor, so that it would be ready for the following day. 

On one occasion, when shearing time came round, most of the shearers were new to the station, and therefore, regarded the gloomy Charlie somewhat in the nature of a joke. 

One night, shortly after their arrival, the shearers were gathered in the cookhouse. It was Charlie's custom to scrape out the fire and go to bed almost as soon as his day's work was finished. However, the shearers being in a rather merry mood, there was considerable uproar in the smoke-filled room, as the men sat round and spun yarns and swapped reminiscences. 

This seemed to annoy Charlie, and his face became, if possible, gloomier than ever. When a remark was addressed to him he would answer with a surly grunt. 

This, of course, only amused the shearers, and they became still rowdier and started to aim a great deal of their repartee at Charlie, who answered not a word. He just sat staring moodily at the fire. 

At last when a particularly loud laugh broke out at some wit directed against him, he rose from his seat and walked, across to where he kept his razor. Without saying a word he picked it up and started stropping it. 

In an instant the raillery ceased, while the men stared at the sombre faced Charlie, as he slowly stroked the gleaming blade to and fro on the strop. Next moment they rose as one man and, within less than half a minute, Charlie was the only man left in the room. 

After that the shearers studiously avoided making any remarks that might be calculated to raise Charlie's ire; though, had they but known it, he had not had any sinister intention, but had simply been giving his razor the customary 'touch up' ready for the morning. — ''Memo."

When The Black Police Went Into Action 

Just across the South Australian border in south-western Queensland the crumbling remains of an old mud hut mark the scene of a tragedy of the seventies. In those early years, when pioneer cattlemen dared the dangers of the fierce Kalkadoon tribe of Aborigines, whose domain extended from along the Diamentina, in South Australia, to as far north as where Camooweal now is in north-western Queensland, the rude dwellings serving as station homesteads were hundreds of miles apart.

Resentful though they were of the coming of the white men, the Kalkadoons seldom did more than indulge in cattle spearing. Attacks on isolated white men were few, probably on account of the close proximity of the black police, a trained body of civilized Aborigines under the command of white officers. Various detachments of black police were stationed at strategic points on the fringe of the then 'never-never.' 

It was late in the afternoon when two stockmen, after a day's ride along the river mustering cattle, returned to the lone out-station hunt mentioned above. Hitherto the blacks had given the hut a wide berth, and there was no sign of danger when the two men dismounted inside the stockyard surrounding the hut and started to unsaddle. 

Suddenly, without warning, a shower of spears came whizzing and thudding around the men and horses. One of the men named MacConachy fell mortally wounded with three or four spears in his body. Seeing that his mate was dead, the other man, Miller, jumped on his horse bareback, and, galloping away through a shower of spears, headed for the Daroo plain, over a hundred miles away, where at the time was encamped a detachment of the black police. It was a knocked-up horse and an exhausted Miller who struggled into the camp after daylight next morning. An expert bushman, Miller, had ridden through out the night with only the stars as his guide. 

The tale of the tragedy was soon told, and without any delay the black police, under their white officers, set forth to avenge the death of MacConachy. Making a detour in order to surprise his murderers, the black police were led by a Daroo plain Aborigine, who knew the country in the neighborhood of the out-station hut. The Kalkadoons were encountered in a camp in the lignum just as daylight was breaking. 

No quarter was given! The black police troopers, seemingly delighted at shooting down their fellow countrymen, opened fire as soon as the camp was reached. Taken completely by surprise, and unable to stand up to the raking fire, the Kalkadoons raced away in terror. There were few survivors, and although authentic records if kept would probably not be divulged, an old Aborigine, since dead, who was a boy of about ten at the time of the raid, told me that few short of a hundred of his tribe were killed. He himself had been knocked down by one of the trooper's horses, and after remaining 'doggo' until the troopers had ridden on in pursuit of hose racing away, had crawled in the lignum and hidden himself. 

The out-station mud hut was ever afterwards taboo to the Aborigines. It probably still is, but one could count on the fingers of one hand the numbers of blacks now frequenting the neighborhood.— 'Old Timer.' 

Never Missed An Opportunity 

While riding along an outback road I met an old swagman, who asked me for a pipe of tobacco. 'Sorry,' I said, 'I haven't had a smoke for hours.' 'Is that so?' he queried, looking surprised. 'Well, I know what that is on a lonely ride. I'd sooner be without a pint of beer than a smoke. But wait a bit, I'll fix you up.'

Then it was my turn to be surprised. From his bundle he took a small bag, made from the sleeve of a cotton shirt. 'Help yourself to what kind you like,' he said. The bag contained dozens of pieces of tobacco, ranging from small hard corners to half-plugs and broken sticks, which had been contributed by wayfarers on many roads and at station huts and shearing sheds. 'I never miss a chance o' gettin' a bit,' he said, 'and you looked a likely sort.'— J.R.