20 August 1936

CHASED BY PIRATES FOR THREE DAYS

Pioneer's Adventures On Voyage To Australia

Voyages to Australia 100 or more years ago were much more exciting experiences than they are today. Not only were the ships much smaller and there fore more subject to buffeting by the elements, but there was also a very real danger of attack from pirates.

I heard of one such experience from the aged daughter of one of South Australia's pioneer wives, who, as a young girl of nine years of age, accompanied her father to New South Wales, before South Australia was settled. Her mother died on the voyage, and was buried at sea, off the Cape of Good Hope.

The little girl took on board the ship on which she travelled from England a pet tortoise, which had been in the possession of the family in England for almost a century. In attempting to call at Capetown for fresh meat, the ship almost fell into the hands of the Dutch, who were at war with England at the time. In fact, the captain had only put in on the strength of a report from a returning East Indiaman, met on the voyage, that a British fleet had been seen to put into Table Bay to occupy the town two months before. Actually, the expedition had been held up, and the capture did not take place until almost 12 months later.

The Dutch harbormaster fired a shot across the bows of the ship, whose captain, astonished at the absence of the fleet from the harbor, had already decided to tack about. Fortunately, there were no enemy ships moored there either and the emigrants escaped with only the loss of two convicts, who were trampled underfoot by a rush from their comrades, who made vain efforts to break hatches and deliver the ship to her enemies. The soldiers in charge of the convicts soon quelled the attempted mutiny, however, by threatening to fire on them.

The captain decided to head southwards after passing the Cape of Good Hope, in an endeavor to catch the 'Roaring Forties' and make a quick passage, a matter of some urgency, after the failure to secure fresh water and provisions at Capetown. As they entered the 'Horse Latitudes,' the chip encountered a calm, frequent enough in these waters, and furious swearing was heard from the bridge, as the captain juggled the possibilities of a breeze in his mind against those of running out of water altogether. Once, a slight breeze sprang up just before dusk, and the ship ran before it with all canvas set, until this, too, died out at day break.

The passengers were awakened by the dull boom of a cannon, and ran up on deck in their night attire, half expecting to see another ship in distress. Instead, they saw a powerful clipper, similar to an East Indiaman in lines, becalmed about half a mile away. The vessels had evidently, sailed on converging courses throughout the night.

To the consternation of those on board the emigrant ship, the 'Jolly Roger,' skull and crossbones complete, broke from the mizzen-mast of the stranger, and a defiant yell from her crew floated across the intervening space. The male passengers were hurriedly impressed and joined to the soldiers on board to repel boarders, while the sea men struggled with nettings and deck cargo in an endeavor to clear some of the ship's guns, which were all but buried under the cargo. Ploughs and casks of rum were relentlessly unlashed and tipped into the sea. The women and children were sent below and battened down, but the tortoise was for gotten on deck.

Presently the pirate lowered a long boat and a cutter, filled with armed men, who started to row across in order to board. The emigrant vessel opened with a broadside of eight or nine guns, and was lucky enough to knock a hole in the pirate cutter. The freebooters abandoned the assault, took the injured boat in tow, and rowed back to their own vessel, doubtless vowing vengeance.

The captain of the merchant vessel then commenced to pray for a wind as earnestly as he had formerly cursed for one. Both ships rolled in a gentle swell all day. At dusk, no light were permitted, but instead, under cover of a moonless night, every boat was filled with volunteers, who strove with muffled oars to tow the vessel beyond the reach of a surprise attack from the pirates' boats.

In the midst of their labors a wind sprang up, the boats were called in again, and every stitch of canvas set. In the morning the hostile craft was hull down on the horizon, where it had evidently been chasing its prospective prey in the wrong direction. Her bow soon swung round, and the captain became uneasy, suspecting that the stranger was a faster sailer, from her lines. Long months at sea, however, had robbed the pirate of her heels, and the chase held practically level, the stranger gaining slightly.

For three days the pursuit continued, the advantage lying with the pirates by day and the fugitive by night. On one occasion, the hostile craft had drawn so close by late afternoon that she was able to fire several shots, with the object of bringing down the masts. The gunners failed to achieve their object, and as their aim was high, no loss of life followed. One or two balls fell on the deck, but rolled off through the scuppers. On the fourth morning, no pirate sail could be seen, and the vessel continued her voyage to Port Jackson without further adventure.

A year or so after South Australia was founded, the girl's father made a trip overland from Sydney with cattle, and was so impressed with the opportunities in the new colony that he persuaded his daughter and her husband to take up land here.

Having finished the story, the old lady took a tortoise-shell from the mantel piece. 'Can you see the dent in the shell?' she asked. 'That was made by one of the pirate's cannon-balls. The poor creature lived for a few months afterwards, but never fully recovered, and we have always kept its shell as a memento of mother's voyage.'— 'Fisher's Ghost.'

Frustrated Hopes

When the railway line was extended from Cummins to Ceduna, more than 20 years ago, that stretch of country, mostly virgin scrub, was thrown open for settlement. Two brothers took up a scrub block. They arrived in the winter time, and put in several months' hard work, clearing about a hundred acres of heavy mallee. At last their task was finished, and they decided to pack up and go home until the burning season. No doubt, they had dreams of a rosy future, for their block was a splendid proposition. Adjoining the railway, it was one of the best in the district.

But the rosy future they were looking forward to was not to be. On the evening of the day they started for home, one of them accidentally shot himself through the head, with fatal results. They had taken their belongings to the nearest siding, intending to camp over, night in readiness early the next morning for the train which was to take them home. They were arranging their luggage just before turning in, when one of them attempted to extract a pea rifle from amongst the baggage. Not dreaming that it was loaded; he caught hold of the barrel, and gave it a hard tug. The gun went off and shot him in the head.

At that time there were no doctors, undertakers, or public utilities within a hundred miles. One can well imagine the shock to the surviving brother, and the sad predicament he was placed in. The only thing he could do was to have his dead brother placed on the train in the morning. And so they both travelled home to their parents, who could not be informed beforehand of what had happened. The shock to the other brother was so great, he never went back to the block, which was left to others to develop.— C.E.P.

The Story Of 'Bolshie'

I first saw 'Bolshie' standing, pick in hand, by the side of a railway track and shouting, 'Pay-per, pay-per,' as a passenger train roared past. He was working in a railway maintenance gang at the time, and was a monomaniac on the subject of Russia as the worker's paradise. It filled his life to the exclusion of all other interests, and, as was only natural, his workmates christened him 'Bolshie.' His cultured voice indicated that he had been well educated, and he always spoke as if addressing a meeting; later his uncle gave me his history.

'That fellow had a better start in life than I had,' he said. 'I had to work for years to get enough to buy this farm. He's my sister's only child, and she devoted every penny she could spare towards his education. He be came a minister, and would have done well enough in the church, for his sermons attracted big congregations. But he must have had socialistic leanings, even then, for he helped himself to the church building fund.

When the business was discovered his mother made the loss good, and then sent him to me. I stood him for six months, then fired him. Do you know that he one day had the nerve to tell me, that if every man had his rights, he would be entitled to help himself to half my land? Well, he won't get it while I'm alive, and he won't get it after I'm dead. Although I have no youngsters of my own to leave it to, I'm going to see that it goes to someone like the Salvation Army, as a training school for boys. I won't have him playing ducks and drakes with the place I worked so hard, to get!'

That old farmer went so far as to consult the Salvation Army about the matter, but he neglected the very necessary formality of making a will— and in 1923 he died suddenly. Always rather obstinate, he insisted on getting up to attend the local show, although he was suffering from a severe attack of influenza, and within three days pneumonia had carried him off. So 'Bolshie' inherited the property after all.

And did that champion of socialism put his theories into practice when he became one of the 'Agricultural Barons' at whom he had so often sneered? Most decidedly not. His first act was to buy a car, put a manager in charge of the farm, and leave for Sydney, where — if local gossip was to be believed — he intended to show former friends how well he had got on in the world.

For a full year he stayed away; by the time he returned he had put a mortgage on the property in order to obtain further ready money. He dismissed the manager and then set out to show his neighbors how to farm. By all accounts, however, one would have to go to comic opera to find a parallel to his management.

There could be only one end to the way in which he carried on, and it came to him in 1927, in the shape of being sold up. I attended the sale, and the farm was in a sorry state, with fences in woeful disrepair, pastures eaten out by overstocking, and fruit trees ruined by being left unpruned and unsprayed. By the time all the claims against the estate were met, a few hundred pounds alone were left for 'Bolshie.' That farm had been valued at over £5,000 for probate, too, when the former owner died.

The way in which he ran through the rest of his money was reminiscent of the fairy tale concerning Hans, whose employer gave him a big lump of silver. Hans started for home, traded the silver for a horse, swapped the horse for a pig, and so on until he had a goose, which flew away, leaving him with no worldly property to bother about. 'Bolshie' spent his last few pounds trying to recoup his fortunes at Oakbank, and then went hunting for a job.

A year later I saw him for the last time. He was standing by the railway line, pick in hand, yelling 'Pay-per, pay-per,' as a passenger train roared past. — H.A.L.

A Calf Might Do

A curate in Adelaide had received notice that he was to take charge of a small parish in the country, and was talking the matter over with the minister to whom he had acted as curate. 'It will be less expensive living in the country,' the minister remarked. 'You will keep a cow, of course?' 'Well,' replied the curate, 'my daughter and I have been talking the matter over, and we think that we shall need so little milk that perhaps a calf might do.'

Shortly after they arrived in the country the girl called at a farm one day, and was shown over the place. Looking at one young animal, she said to the farmer, 'What age would that nice young beast be?' The farmer replied, "That is two years old." 'How clever you are to be able to tell the ages of these beasts! How can you do it?' she asked. 'Oh, we tell it by their horns,' he said. 'Oh! Of course, it has only two,' she replied.— A.D.

A Touch Of Humor

On entering a small bush township, while on a recent tour, we were rather surprised to see a notice which read, 'Speed, five miles per hour.' We looked at the township, and then at each other. Were the local lads road hogs? Did the councillors have a sense of humor and but up the sign as a practical joke; or did the folk want to see as much as possible of each traveller? Those were a few of the questions we asked ourselves; but whatever the reason, the irony of the notice was obvious, and it was with amused smiles that we slowed down to funeral pace, and crawled through the township to the interested gaze of the entire crowd of shoppers, who turned with one accord to watch us.

Embarrassing? Not a bit! The crowd consisted of one small girl and the diminutive occupant of the pram she was wheeling!

When we reached the other side of of the township, however, we realised how we had been had, for there, untouched by vandals, was another notice which stated, 'Speed, 15 miles per hour.' The joke was truly on us, but we did appreciate that little touch of humor on an otherwise dreary stretch.— 'White Ants.'

Real Life Stories of South Australia (1936, August 20). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92463974