25 February 1937

STRANGE STORY OF ADVENTUROUS CAPTAIN CADELL

Murdered In Mutiny Off North Coast Of Australia

[This headline referring to Captain Cadell is wrong. That story appears in the next week's issue of real Life Stories of South Australia. See 4 Mar 1937]

Recently a child happened to ask me what the round discs were doing on the ropes that moored a vessel to a wharf, and the explanation that followed took my mind back to an episode in interstate travel that occurred over thirty years ago.

I had booked my passage from Sydney to Port Adelaide and had settled down for what I anticipated was going to be a comfortable night's sleep in my berth. Any one on that ship who was suffering from insomnia had little need to count sheep, as there was absolutely no chance of running out of rats before daylight. They approached in skirmishing order, scouts to the front, then wary advanced guards, and finally the main body, which pranced and tramped in column of route up and down the bunk without cessation, except to repel the occasional inroads of apparently strange rats, which leaped up in vain endeavor to join the merry, dancing throng.

I called a steward and demanded to know what the company, or at least the ship's company, was going to do about it. As the steward explained, with the air of a man who knew his tale by heart, there was nothing that could be done, short of sending for the Pied Piper of Hamelin.

He added an interesting piece of information, however, to the effect that the ship's snake had been shoved down into the bilges on leaving port, and possibly its presence there was responsible for scaring the rats out into the open in unusual force. He held out hopes that they might go back under cover again before reaching Melbourne, as the cold weather was inclined to send the nautical serpent off to sleep, in place of putting in his full watch on duty.

I bade the steward good night, and I went to look up a friend whose cabin happened to be up on deck. Sure enough, not a single rat was troubling him, so I begged permission to curl up on his floor, and promptly did so. Towards morning I awoke and gazed up to see if my friend was still sleeping. He was sound enough, until I hurriedly awakened him with the news that a large snake was fast asleep under his pillow. Once again the steward received an urgent summons to remove the reptile. Fearlessly the man seized it and carefully wrapped it up in a blanket.

'You needn't worry, he remarked, 'If old Coiler comes back again to night. This is his favorite berth.' We stared in amazement, for a snake is still a snake as far as bedmates go, even if it is only a harmless carpet snake. As he reached the door, the steward turned round to impart a little more information. 'The captain always asks anyone in this cabin not to advertise the presence of the snake if they can help it,' he informed us, 'as it might lead to trouble if the news got round'' 'I daresay it would,' remarked my friend ironically. 'Yes, we had the devil of a row once,' the steward went on. 'There were a lot of fellows aboard from up country going to some Exhibition, and they couldn't stand the rats. As soon as somebody told them about Coiler, they all started asking for a snake to keep in their cabin, and there weren't enough to go round, even with the two the purser keeps in the pantry : ' — 'Alpha.'

Obeying Orders

The navy draws a sharp distinction between orders and instructions. Orders must be obeyed implicitly, but instructions are only directions, as it were, to be modified, altered improved upon, or disregarded as the man to whom they were given sees fit. I often think it is a pity that private employers do not recognise this distinction; it might be better for all concerned if they did. I once saw an amusing example of this point.

An Adelaide man unexpectedly inherited a fine property in the hills comprising a big house and several acres of ground laid out like a miniature park. I was engaged on some renovations to the house and saw the new owner interviewing applicants for the position of gardener. As each man turned up the owner of the property would point to a bundle of standard roses and say, 'Give me a demonstration of how you can work. I want those roses planted on this strip of garden, and I want them all planted with their branches in the ground and their roots in the air.' The first man argued and was told to clear out; the second man said that he did not intend to work for a lunatic, and left. The third applicant looked surprised for a moment, then replied, 'Very good,' and planted the roses as directed. 'You've got the job,' said the owner. 'You're the type of man I require—one who'll obey without question and do exactly what I tell him.' He pointed to the roses, and added, 'Now dig them up again and plant them in the proper way.'

'Just let me get this clear,' replied the gardener. 'I have to do just what you say, even though it's wrong?' 'Yes,' snapped the other. 'I want no arguing and no discussions. I know my own mind and I'm not given to making mistakes. As long as you do a fair day's work and obey my orders without comment, you'll have a steady job here.' 'Right,' said the gardener. 'That suits me fine.'

During the dinner hour I had a yarn with the gardener. I informed him that the new owner had been an officer during the war; the gardener replied that he had guessed it.

'Saw plenty of his type in France,' he growled. 'And they usually relied on the sergeants and corporals to get them out of trouble. But there's no N.C.O.'s here, and he'll make a fool of himself. Did you hear what he said about doing exactly what he told me to? Well, that's just what I will do. You'll see some fun before long.'

Nothing happened, however, until I had nearly completed my contract; then the owner spoke to the gardener in my hearing. 'I'll be away nearly all day,' he said. 'And you can get busy on taking out those sickly trees along the drive. Grub out the first, third and fifth trees on the right-hand side as you come in the gate.' The gardener repeated the order to make sure that there would be no mistake, gave me a wink as he passed, and presently I heard his axe at work.

I was hardly prepared, however, for the sight which met my eyes two hours later, for I saw one of the magnificent old cedars come crashing down. Another fell towards noon; the owner of the property came back just as the third was on the point of falling. With goggling eyes he looked upon the destruction which had been wrought, then began to tell the gardener what he thought of him. The gardener listened with a wooden face. When the other fell silent at last he remarked,

'Now, I'll have a word. You said I was to take out the first, third and fifth trees on the right-hand side coming in, didn't you? Well I've done it. You said you wanted me to obey with out question.'

The owner of the place came to me for sympathy, but did not get it. 'I worked for a chap just like you,' I told him. 'He told me to do what I was ordered to do, and keep my mouth shut, and I did so. As a result I cut some twenty pieces of Oregon at the wrong mark, and he lost quite a lot of money.'

'But that fool knew I'd made a mistake,' he protested. 'He could see that I meant the pines on the other side.'

'And he was also told to obey with out question,' I retorted. He said no more.

I saw the gardener a few months later. 'Yes, I'm still there,' he informed me, 'but there's been no more of that 'obey orders even if you break the owner' stunt. It's always, 'what would you advise? or 'do you think?' now.'— 'Bert the Carpenter.'

Surgery Seventy Years Ago [1867]

About seventy years ago, Mr. Mitchell, of Parabba Station, left Streaky Bay for Parabba in a heavy dray with two large draught horses. Near where the Piednippie Hall now stands he halted for a time, and then decided to push on. As he went to get up into the dray, the horses moved forward. Mr. Mitchell lost his balance and fell down between the shafts. The dray passed over his legs, and in his pain he flung out his arms, over which the wheels also passed. The horses, startled by his cries, continued to move away and made their way to the station.

Mr. Mitchell was left helpless in the road, to be found some time later by those who came to seek him, including his wife. Both legs appeared to be broken and at least one of his arms.

When word reached Streaky Bay of the accident and of the extent of his injuries, the local constable set out to do what he could for the injured man. The constable rather prided himself on his surgical skill and loudly asserted that the only thing to be done was to amputate the limbs. To make sure that he could perform the amputation successfully, he stopped at Kirkla station on the way to Parabba to sharpen his knife and to borrow a cross-cut saw.

When he arrived at Parabba, however, Mr. Mitchell vigorously protested against the police man's intention to amputate his legs. 'I may be dying,' he said, 'but I'll go to the grave with my legs on.'

As Mr. Mitchell obstinately refused to allow the amputation, the constable proceeded to set the bones. Splints were made from a tea chest. Mitchell was strapped back to a peg in the wall by saddle girth straps. Pegs were driven into the floor to which his 'set' legs were fastened. In his enthusiasm the 'doctor' did not notice a nail in one of the splints which was attached to Mr. Mitchell's arms. The bandages were drawn so tightly that they prevented circulation.

After a few days it became obvious that mortification had set in in Mr. Mitchell's limbs. Several persons expressed dissatisfaction with the work of the policeman, and it was decided to send for Mr. Tilney Cotton [1836-1914] , of Pantalbie Station. When Tilney Cotton arrived, he discovered that the arm set with the splint with the nail in it was not broken at all. He also cut eleven pounds of mortified flesh from the various limbs of Mr. Mitchell, cutting down until the flesh was clear and the blood running fairly freely. He also reset the broken limbs.

Tilney Cotton was not at all optimistic in regard to Mr. Mitchell's recovery, but the hardy old squatter did get better and lived for some years after that. He was never nimble on his legs again, however, and once in a dray objected to getting out at any gates he came to. To save the necessity of doing so, he used to take with him Tilney Cotton's son, Charlie [1864-1949], then a little boy, but now the grand old man of Chandada.— C.Y.A.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1937, February 25). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 15. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92468902