16 July 1936

END OF PORT ELLIOTS DREAM OF COMMERCIAL IMPORTANCE

Five Wrecks In Nine Months Showed Insecurity Of Harbor

For years now Port Elliot has been a port without shipping, and instead of its dreams of commercial importance as an outlet for the River Murray trade having been realised, it has become a popular seaside resort. Just 80 years ago, residents of Port Elliot had visions of it becoming an important commercial centre, for the Murray was then being opened for navigation, and Port Elliot was widely used as a depot for goods to be sent up the river. 'Orders from the upper river to be supplied by our resident dealers and manufacturers are appreciable,' wrote the Port Elliot correspondent of 'The Register' in 1856.

But a series of wrecks, more than were experienced at any other port, prevented this development, and, further, gave the port such a bad name for shipping that it was said that underwriters would not take the responsibility of insuring vessels which used Port Elliot.

The chapter of accidents in 1856 began with the wreck of the Commodore, a vessel of 60 tons, from Adelaide. Commodore Point commemorates the spot where she went ashore. She parted her cables in a storm, and ran on to the rocks outside the entrance to the harbor, then, known as Rocky Point. Although the Commodore gave her name to this point, she was not the first vessel to pile up on it. The Emu had run aground there two and a half years before. The loss of the Commodore was not as serious for the reputation of Port Elliot as it might have been, because the captain had taken no pilot on board, although his services were easily procurable by signal. The outcome was that the Commodore did not choose the best anchorage. Rapidly driving to leeward, the vessel anchored only a few yards, according to a contemporary ac count, from a reef. When the ship parted her cable, the crew tried to make her safe close to the rocks by throwing ropes, but this was unsuccessful. The wreckage was strewn along the beach, and all that could be saved were a few spars and sails. The Commodore was wrecked in March, but it was in the winter and spring months that the worst came.

The Josephine L'Oizeau, carrying 120 tons of cargo of flour and spirits valued at £3,000, took the best anchorage possible, but when a storm arose, was driven on to the rocks and became a total wreck in three or four hours. Many of her passengers were women and children going to the Upper Murray, and were on their way to Goolwa to be transhipped. There were lively moments when the ship went aground, and only courage and resource resulted in 13 women and children, the passengers, getting ashore safely.

[Then] the chief concern was for the cargo. 'Several casks of spirits were unfortunately broken, but as there are at this moment many hands at work, I hope to be able to report that much that is at present deemed lost may be recovered,' wrote the optimistic Port Elliot correspondent. The wreck of the Josephine L'Oizeau gave point to the assertion of local residents that the breakwater, which was being built, should be hurried along as quickly as possible.

Port Elliot also became interested in the sinking of a new barge, the Goulbourn, which was on its way from Adelaide to that port. Captain Robert Ross left Adelaide for Port Elliot in July with the barge in tow of his vessel, the Melbourne. A five-inch tow rope joined the vessels in the centre, and four-inch tow ropes were on the sides. The Goulbourn carried from eight to 10 tons of cargo — mostly planking and timber, and the vessels started on their voyage in smooth water.

It became rough about 1 o'clock the following morning, and not seeing Cape Jervis, the captain pursued the same course for another hour. The captain then hailed the barge, and told those on board to look after their steering, but they replied that the barge was making water forward, and the rudder was too far out of the water to be effective. The steamer was shipping a little water forward, but not an appreciable amount.

At 5 am, at dawn, it was seen that the barge was well down in the water for'ard, and that the members of its crew were working feverishly at the pumps. The captain ordered full steam ahead. The barge took a sheer across the stern and cut the two four-inch ropes. It then sheered again, parting the other rope. Seas went right over the barge, which settled further down. The Melbourne tried to set near it to connect with it again, but heavy seas prevented this. By this time between 15 and 20 feet of the barge was under water.

'Launch your boat,' yelled the captain to the barge crew, but they continued their mad pumping, and took no heed. The captain steamed to windward with the intention of dropping his own boat to her, but could not get the Melbourne into position. The barge kept drifting down towards Kangaroo Island, which was about four miles away. The steamer herself was shipping a great deal of water now, and Captain Ross decided to keep her head into the wind. The lives of the barge crew were despaired of. He conferred with the mate, the engineer, and his most experienced seaman, and they agreed that nothing could be done, and the barge went down at 8.30 am, about half a mile from the steamer. There were no survivors and no explanation was given why the vessel went down. It was a new craft, and apparently in perfect condition. The boat of the barge was later found at Hog Bay, badly stove in.

One morning in September, both the Swordfish and the Lapwing were driven ashore in a gale. The Swordfish was driven stern backwards on to the sandy beach at the spot on which the Josephine L'Oizeau was totally wrecked two months previously. Her cargo, principally flour, was taken off, and she was refloated later. The Swordfish's going ashore was particularly interesting because not only was she secured at the recognised moorings by four anchors, but has also obtained a specially strong hawser from the harbor master for extra protection.

The Lapwing, which had been at Port Elliot when the Josephine L'Oizeau had been wrecked, was not as fortunate. She was a vessel of 102 tons. She was driven on to rocks and, in a recumbent position, waves soon made a complete wreck of her. Two members of the crew, Hawkins and Brown, who attempted to get aboard her after the rest of the crew had left, were drowned. In contrast the captain of the Swordfish would not allow chronometer or clothes to be taken ashore until it was safe to do so.

The Government was blamed for not providing adequate mooring material. Feeling ran high when it was stated that Captain Douglas at Port Adelaide had stated that the tackling which was lying at Port Adelaide, ready for shipment to Port Elliot, was too good for the purpose. Another petition was prepared, for underwriters would not insure Port Elliot risks.

In entirely different circumstances, there was another wreck before the year ended. The brig Harry, carrying 400 bales of wool and 1,642 tons of lead ore, was being taken by Captain Nation, the harbormaster, and a pilot from the river to the outer moorings. The wind, which had been light, changed, and the brig went on the point where the Commodore had gone aground earlier in the year. Anchors would not hold, and ropes passed out to the rocks were immediately cut. The tide was rising rapidly, and the brig was carried so far in shore that there was no chance of getting her back, even at high tide. An enquiry was held, but the pilot was exonerated, as the accident was due to a lack of harbor capacity.

So ended the most disastrous year in the history of any South Australian port.— H.

'Twa Hoondred Cats'

Poor old Mac has been dead for many years, so there is no harm in telling the story of the dreadful blunder he made that hot summer night twenty years ago. He was a former ship's engineer, living in retirement in an Adelaide suburb, who suffered badly from insomnia. He could never go to sleep until all traffic had stopped at night, and the first milk carts always awakened him before dawn. As a result, his temper was very short at times, and nothing so annoyed him as the horrible snarls, ghostly wailings and hideous screeches of cats at night. The lawn of his house was often littered with boots and brushes which he had flung at prowling cats during the night. For some unknown reason, the cats seemed to prefer his lawn to any other in the street.

Matters came to a head one hot and sweltering summer night. The last tram had run and there was no noise of traffic, but through the muggy air came the restless barking of a dog and the wailing of a host of cats. We were trying to get to sleep on the verandah of our house; suddenly a figure in white pyjamas came softly up the path. It was old Mac.

'Are ye awake, George?' he asked. My father went down the path to see what he wanted. 'It's cats, George,' our neighbor explained. 'Can't ye hear the devils? There's twa hoondred of them at least, all sittin' in a ring on my lawn and howlin' at each other. Man, they'll drive me daft, they will.' 'Why not throw a few stones at them?' my father asked. 'But that's no matter o' use,' our neighbor replied. 'They'll juist cam' back again the moment I'm dozing off. Man, I'm thinkin' I'll settle their hash properly. Lend me that goon o' yours.'

My father tried to argue with him, but old Mac was insistent; so at last my father gave in and went inside to get the gun. Mac seized It with a croak of delight. 'Both barrels loaded, eh? he whispered. 'Man, but I thank ye. Now just wait and listen. The moon's shinin' fair on 'em and it's a bonny chance, I'll skittle the domn lot, whatever.' I sat up in bed, shaking with excitement, and waited through an intolerably long two minutes.

Then a double report sent the echoes rattling for miles; cats scuttled in all directions, doors opened all down the street, and excited voices asked each other what had happened. Every dog in the suburb began to bark, and all the roosters started to crow their heads off. Then came a snarling, growling noise from old Mac's lawn. It was the old man swearing and cursing furiously. My father went to the fence.

'What?' I heard him say, as he took the gun from Mac. 'D'you mean to say you didn't hit one cat out of two hun-dred? You must be a rotten shot!' I hit one domn thing, at any rate, ' old Mac retorted. 'And it'll cost a pretty penny, I'm thinking. I missed those twa hoondred cats, but I've gone and put twa hoondred holes through the gas meter.''—H.A.L.

Uncle's Boots

My old uncle Tom was one of those men who are born with the gift of using their hands. He could grasp all the fundamental points of a job by watching another man at work, and could then go away and do a similar job him self. He picked up all the tricks of the saddler's trade, for example, by sitting in the workshop and yarning to the saddler, and the same thing held good of carpentry and blacksmithing.

However all his work had one fatal flaw; as Charley, our neighbor, used to say, 'Old Tom rushes at his jobs like a bull at a gate and never stops to think.' That terse comment just about summed the old man up. For example, look at the dresser he made for aunty. She was always grumbling about the ugly old dresser in her kitchen, and one night, when uncle had boasted that he could do any job in the wood-working line, she rounded on him with a sharp, 'Pity you don't make me a new kitchen dresser, then.'

There were a lot of people present, and the laugh which followed stung uncle. 'All right,' he retorted, 'I'll start on one tomorrow.' He did, too. Day after day the sound of planing and sawing sounded from the workshop and long, curly pine shavings blew about the yard.

Six days later the dresser stood completed, and really, one had to admire it. From the glass doors to the neatly-cut dovetail jointing for the drawers, it was a job of which a cabinet-maker could be proud. Aunty went into raptures over it. Uncle walked to the paddock fence and called old Charley over to have a look at it. Charley came, looked, and stood silent. 'What's wrong with it?' snapped uncle at last, when Charley kept silent. 'Nothing, Tom,' said the neighbor, in a thoughtful tone. 'And that in itself is marvellous.' He stood looking at the dresser with a thoughtful frown, walked around it, tried all the doors and drawers, then stood back. There must be something wrong somewhere,' he kept saying; but he failed to find it.

Uncle did, though, when he tried to get the dresser out of the shed. It would not pass through the door, no matter which way he tipped it. Charley came over and advised him to take the dresser to pieces, but uncle refused to hear of it. 'I'll pull down the end of the shed,' he retorted, and did so.

The dresser came out of the shed all right, but refused to go into the kitchen through the door a minute later. Old Charley asked uncle if he was going to pull down the wall of the kitchen to get it in, and received a reply which I regret to say was unprintable.

The dresser stood in the back verandah for weeks; finally aunty rose in revolt and uncle knocked the thing to pieces and re-assembled it in the kitchen. But it never looked the same again and was always rickety, for he had to break many of the joints apart.

The thing that uncle never really managed to live down, however, was the way he made himself a pair of boots. He began the job all right; he first took a plaster cast of one of his feet, copied the plaster in wood, and built a boot around the last. It was a fine job; one would have thought that a master tradesman had made it.

Old Charley came over just before the second boot was completed and stood examining the finished one, while uncle stitched away at the other. 'Want to get 'em finished so I can wear 'em to church tomorrow,' said uncle. 'I've always wanted a pair of boots that would really fit me, and now I've got 'em, by jingo. That one' fits me like a glove, Charley.' Charley turned the finished boot about, looking for the usual blunder, and found it.

He gave a roar of laughter and sat down, with the boot in his hand. Every time uncle asked the reason for his amusement, Charley would give another roar. At last he gasped out, 'You'll never wear them to church tomorrow! This is the best joke I've ever heard. You're an old world-beater. You made both boots on the same last. You've gone and made two left ones!'

I have never forgotten the look of horror that came over my poor old uncle's face when the dreadful truth dawned on him. He always swore that he would make two right boots to match, but he never did. In fact, he never finished the one he was working on when Charley discovered his blunder.— 'Bogaduck.'

Real Life Stories of South Australia (1936, July 16). Chronicle .(Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 16. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92461541