1 October 1936

AN EARLY SOUTH AUSTRALIAN TRAGEDY 

Tasmanian Sealer Murdered By Blacks

Eleven years before South Australia was settled, G. Meredith, the son of a Tasmanian businessman, was sent by his father in search of seals among the Islands along the southern coast of Australia. 

For several weeks his hunting proved very successful, and he was visualising his home-coming, and, in imagination, hearing his father's congratulations on his fine navigation and successful expedition, when disaster overtook him.

One night a sudden storm burst upon the vessel which was tossed about like a cork upon the raging waters. By a fine effort of seamanship, young Meredith managed to turn the ship and keep it before the wind, in an attempt to run for shelter to Howe's Island. The vessel scurried before the storm, but the night obscured Meredith's vision, and before he could alter his course he had run on to the rocks of the island. 

With the help of a Tasmanian black woman named Sal whom he employed, and a member of his crew, a Dutchman named Jacob Seaman, Meredith managed to launch a boat, and the three, the only survivors of the wreck, made for the open sea. 

Next morning dawned clear and calm, and the occupants of the little boat, taking their bearings from the sun, eventually reached Kangaroo Island, landing at Western River, opposite the Althorpes. Here, the two men erected a crude hut and eked out an existence with the assistance of Sal, who, despite having lost half of one of her feet when young by sleeping too near a fire, proved to be a willing helper and a great cook. 

Meredith, not at all dismayed by the loss of his valuable cargo, hunted seals in his boat, storing them until the time should arrive that he would possess enough to cover the loss of his father's ship and its contents. The seals were very numerous, and, to aid him still further in his enterprise, he visited the mainland and obtained two black boys, whom he trained, with the object of taking them with him when he returned to Tasmania and giving them employment in his father's fleet. 

The beauty of the island, however, made Meredith forget the passing of time and, as the weeks slipped by, he kept postponing his return to civilisation, as the life with other islanders whom he joined at Nepean Bay, seemed to be all that could be desired. 

One day, however, thinking that he might do better further afield, he decided to take his boat to St. Vincent's Gulf. With Sal and his two black boys, he sailed across Backstairs Passage, up the gulf a little, and landed near what is now Normanville. 

It was dark by the time the boys had a fire going, and Sal had prepared a simple meal of porridge. Squatting down near the fire for warmth, Meredith began to eat his food gazing the while into the flickering flames. He was turning over in his mind the question of leaving the island in the near future and returning to his people, who by his time had probably given him up as dead. 

So absorbed was he picturing his home-coming once again and, no doubt, seeing his mother's anxious, worn face in the flames, that he did not notice nor hear his two treacherous black boys creeping up behind him. 

Suddenly a wild yell burst from the blacks as they leapt the few remaining feet between them and the silent figure silhouetted against the blaze, and brought their clubs crashing simultaneously upon Meredith's unprotected head. They continued to club Meredith's head and body until the former was an unrecognisable, ghastly pulp, and then lay down beside their victim to sleep until daybreak. 

Next morning the two murderers, taking possession of Sal, the boat, and all its contents, sailed away to Encounter Bay, where for many months they used the boat for sealing and fishing, until it was ultimately lost by setting adrift from a careless fastening. 

Owing to the state of the country at the time, no steps were ever taken to punish the blacks for their crime, which was not discovered until some months later, when Sal, eventually managing to escape from her captors, related the story of the murder after she had joined an American named George Brown, who was employed by one of the whaling companies on Kangaroo Island. 

After the first colonists arrived in South Australia in 1836, Brown left the island and obtained employment at Holdfast Bay. There he married an emigrant girl in the service of Captain Lipson, the first harbormaster. On Brown's marriage, Sal left him and joined William Cooper, a white sealer, who acted as interpreter to Colonel Light in his dealings with the aborigines. 

For many years Meredith's parents waited in vain for the return of their son, little dreaming that his broken, bleached bones lay unburied at the scene of his murder. —R.I. 

Fool-Proof 

The new chum was being told the usual bush tales about goanna-oil, which his hearers half-believed themselves, partly from hearing and telling them so often, and partly from lack of energy to put the matters under discussion to the test. 

"Used to know a cove," commenced old Andy, "who was in the sawing business in the days of pit-sawing. They felled an old gum and trimmed it up ready to shave down into boards, when they had to leave on another job. Just to mark it, this cove dipped his finger in a drop of goanna-oil and scratched his initials on the bottom. 

It was twelve months before they got back to it, and they cut it up into twenty-foot lengths. It didn't astonish them much to find the same initials still on the wood at the first cut, nor the second, because they knew that the oil had simply worked through the sap in a straight line, but they nearly fell off the log when they found the initials on a leaf at the top of the tree, where it had run out." 

"And what kept the leaf alive all the time?" demanded the green one. 

"The goanna-oil, of course," replied Andy. "Wonderful stuff that," chipped in Ike, the teamster, "I've known of fellows perishing with rheumatics who've taken it for a few weeks, and it cured them like a charm. The blacks used to know about it. Whenever they were wounded in a scrap, the first thing a buck would do would be to kill one and smear the kidney fat on the cut. Used to heal overnight, no matter how deep the spear had gone. Then they used to smear themselves all over with it when it rained, and they never got a chill. Come to think of it have yer ever heard of a snake beating a goanna in a scrap? The goanna just draws on his own juices and that kills the poison. Course, there's a green herb they go for if it's about, but they can cure themselves without. There ought to be a for tune for the man who could discover it."

"Why isn't the oil sold as an antidote?" demanded the new chum. 

"Well, there's the catch," admitted old Andy. "Didn't you know about goanna-oil? No matter what you put it in, it just seeps through. For instance, if you were to fill that beer bottle in the morning and shove it up on a shelf, by sundown it would be all gone, soaked through the wood and into the ground. No, son, you've got to use it as soon as you get it."

The new chum said nothing, and went inside. He emerged with a shot gun, disappeared for a few minutes and returned with a goanna fastened to the barrel of the gun. Sounds of cutting and scraping emerged from the tool-house for a while and then silence. 

"What have you been up to?" asked Andy, as he emerged. 

"I reckon that I've fixed that goanna problem," the other replied. "I've got the oil bottled in one thing it will never work its way through, and it beats me that none of you ever thought of it before."

"What did you do?"

"Hollowed the tail out and filled it up with oil," replied the new chum with a grin, as he gloated over the discomfiture of the older men. Next morning, his grin relaxed, as he contemplated an empty tail. 

"I am afraid your luck was out, lad," sympathised Andy. "Your idea was a good one, but they don't store it in the skin, but in a special part of the body. If you could find out what that's made of now." 

The new chum gave it up. He would really have spent his time to better advantage in examining his goanna tail, and in it he might have seen the minute needle-puncture through which old Andy had let the precious fluid escape in the night, drop by drop. — 'Dingo.' 

The Spearing Of Kelly 

The treatment meted out to the natives by some of the early white settlers forms a black page in Australian history. Driven from their tribal hunting grounds and waterholes, often forced into the territory of hereditary enemies, their young women stolen and their men shot down when they protested—the lot of some Aborigines was a terrible one. 

In 1886, when I was helping with the work of surveying the Barkley Tableland into pastoral holdings, we were running lines on a station owned by Brodie and De Salis. One evening a young blackfellow stalked into our camp and informed David Lindsay, our leader, that his name was Tiger. 

The name fitted him well. His lean and muscular body moved with a cat like grace; his face bore a somewhat fierce expression. Yet there was nothing brutal or vicious about him, so far as we could see— he merely seemed to be one who could be a good friend but a bad enemy. He carried only a couple of spears and a throwing stick, but the lubra who followed him was loaded like a packhorse with her master's gear. She was one of the prettiest native girls I ever saw. Many white women could have envied her thick mop of curly hair or the shapeliness of her plump, well-nourished body. Her name was Oamah. 

David Lindsay questioned Tiger about the country over which we were working and received intelligent replies; we gave the young couple a few little gifts and they continued their 'walkabout.' 

A few days later we learned that the manager of a station —I'll call him Sam Kelly— had taken Oamah and had driven Tiger away at the point of his rifle. The young lubra's captivity was of short duration, however, for she escaped from the room in which Kelly had placed her and rejoined her husband. The pair then cleared out to Eva Downs station, where a branch of their tribe had a camp. 

They thought themselves safe there, no doubt, but Kelly rode across a few days later, persuaded the manager of Eva Downs to send Tiger off on a fool's errand about some horses, then rode Oamah down on horseback and took her back to the station again. 

Our survey party reached Eva Downs homestead when Tiger returned; his rage and grief when he found his young wife had been taken made us feel ashamed to belong to a race which was capable of such conduct. Hard-bitten bushmen though some of the surveyors were, they all made remarks like, 'Well, it's a crime to treat a nigger in that fashion.' 

Tiger went off after Kelly, and one of the station hands rode off to warn Kelly that Tiger was following him. "You're going to strike trouble over this," said the stockman, when he over took Kelly. ''Tiger's after you, and those surveyors are going to make a report about the business when they can get in touch with a trooper. You'd better let that lubra go." The station manager laughed. 'I can look after myself,' he retorted. 'I'll put a bullet into Tiger if I see him.'

 A few days later Kelly set off to ride to Collacum, on Cresswell Creek, carrying a loaded carbine and keeping a sharp lookout. But that night his horse came back with blood on the saddle and a search party found Kelly lying beside the track with a heavy spear in his back. Tiger had got in first! During the absence of the stockmen, Tiger smashed open the storeroom in which Oamah was kept a prisoner and they both cleared out again. 

The mounted constable who came over to investigate the murder of Kelly did not catch Tiger. Perhaps he really was unable to discover his hide-out, but I have always thought that he held the same opinion as the rest of us. 

David Lindsay spoke for the whole party when he said to the constable, 'Don't ask me to help you catch that nigger. I won't lift a finger, and my men are of the same mind. The only epitaph I'll give to Kelly is 'Serve him blanky well right.' He had no more right to take that little lubra than Tiger would have to carry off a white man's wife.'—G.S.L. 

Initiating A Recruit 

Modern firemen have to be highly skilled at their work, and that involves careful training. 

As in many other technical occupations, however, recruits during the first few weeks after joining, are subjected to a number of practical jokes. I recall the experiences of one young man from the country, who joined the Adelaide force a few years ago. 

At the station to which he was sent, there was an old wooden tower, which had stood there for years, a relic of some carnival sideshow, which had failed, and had never removed it. The newcomer was told that this was the district watch-tower, and he was promptly sent up to relieve the sentry there (posted a few minutes before hand) and carry on. 

Orders for the post were duly handed over, and he stood there through the first cold hours of a winter night, "looking to each quarter of the compass for the glare of fire or signs of smoke at least twice in each half-hour," and calling out the time at the end of each inspection. 

'Nine o'clock and all's well,' had just sounded, when the local police man happened to pass by, and ascended the tower to ascertain who was there. He refused to accept the recruit's explanations for his presence, and insisted on his being identified by the officer in charge before letting the matter drop. 

Later that evening, the officer was having a look at the equipment, when he heard sounds of stentorian breathing and muscles creaking round the trap at the top of the pole down which the men slide quickly from their quarters on the first floor when an alarm sounds. 

He switched on the lights, to disclose the recruit clinging precariously to the pole and obviously exhausted. His explanation was that some of the men had been arguing, and it had been asserted that no one was capable of climbing up the pole in darkness, after returning from an outbreak without many weeks of training. 

Anxious to see if he could shatter records, the recruit had been practising (in accordance with the expectations of his tormentors), with little hope of success, for the top portion of the pole had been plentifully smeared with oil. 

Most civilians enquire why firemen wear brass helmets, and newcomers to the force often ask the same question. They are often told that it is a precautionary measure, in case the water supply fails, when water can be handed along in helmets, bucket-fashion. 

The recruit refused to credit this tale, so one of the jokers took him out to the old well at the rear of the station, and told him to fasten his helmet to the rope and draw up water for fighting an imaginary fire. All hands helped with the 'drill' until the recruit's shining helmet, which had cost him a lot of elbow-grease, was well dulled by the slime from the well. 

This time, however, the joke was with the recruit. In the haste of picking up gear, he had donned one of the other men's helmets by mistake and this had been the one to suffer. As the owner was known to be quarrelsome and a fair man with his fists, the jokers were compelled to restore it to its pristine brilliance themselves.— 'Greenhide.' 

Another Ghost Laid To Rest 

Seated around a cosy fire we made a happy party, the guest of honor thrilling us with a description of his recent trip to California. Then from another man, the owner of pearl luggers, we heard exciting tales of divers, sharks, and valuable cargoes. 

Finally, by some strange twist, the conversation drifted to ghosts. There are some people who say that there are no such things as ghosts, but many men I know well— away in the stillness and vastness of the outback — think differently. 

This is especially so at one particular camp, a rambling old homestead on the old Tarcoola track, where so many years ago the stage coach changed weary horses for fresh ones. 

Knowing the tales, as well as imagining many more, of the days when good and bad men travelled the same scorching sandy way in the one feverish gold rush, only magnified their fears when from out the intense silence of the night came the distinct jingle of horse-hobbles. As the men had journeyed there by motor truck, none of the sounds came from their gear, so when they refused to sleep there again, the manager, new to the station him self and anxious to get the job through, felt compelled to investigate. 

Creeping quietly past the sleeping men, after hearing the unmistakable sounds they had grown to hate, he opened the door, only to find bright moonlight— nothing in sight. He determined to make a thorough search, however, and when, a little later, while still prowling around stealthily and unsatisfied, he stumbled upon a rough trap-door opening to an old cellar, the search became more hopeful. 

While groping here and there, the mysterious sound once more broke the stillness, and glancing quickly in the direction from which it came, he saw a half-buried iron grating, from which hung a chain and horse-hobbles, jingling their innocent, but fearsome notes in the soft breeze. 

Light-heartedly he returned to the men, bearing the rusty cause of many an anxious heart-thump. And thus another of Australia's bush ghosts was laid to rest.— M. McE.