18 March 1937

YELLOW FEVER DRIVES CAPTAIN MAD

Barricaded In Cabin, He Attempts To Annihilate Crew

Storms, fever, and a mad captain firing at everyone who went near him — such are the essentials of the story of the barque Hannah Nicholson on its voyage from Adelaide to Mauritius and back in 1873.

The vessel left for Mauritius with a cargo of flour in charge of Captain Leask, a quiet, unostentatious man who was once a member of the lifeboat, crew at Semaphore, but had gained his master's certificate in the B. B. line, to which the Hannah Nicholson belonged.

On the way to Mauritius the barque ran into a succession of storms, and only the fine seamanship of the skipper saved her. When the ship, badly battered, reached Mauritius the crew's troubles were not an end. Yellow fever was raging on the island. Captain Leask took every possible precaution for the safety of his crew. They were not permitted to unload the ship themselves, and were given liberal doses of brandy, which was believed to ward off infection. A cargo of sugar was taken in when natives had discharged the shipment of flour, and the ship left for Port Adelaide as soon as possible.

Captain Leask carried out his duties with his usual ability until he reached Kangaroo Island on the return voyage. Then, apparently feeling himself becoming insane, he told his officers to put him under restraint, but they refused to do so. 'Well, I have brought the barque this far,' he said. 'Surely you can take it into port.'

He went to the cabin alone, and shortly afterwards became insane. He barricaded his cabin against imaginary attacks by the officers and crew, and proceeded to blaze away at them with the many firearms in the cabin. The vessel had previously been engaged in the China Seas trade, and consequently carried a large stock of guns and ammunition, all of which were in the captain's cabin.

At the slightest sound the demented captain shot ball cartridges through the bulkheads. The crew for their protection put mattresses, bedding, and boards round the outside of the cabin to try to stop the bullets. In this way the captain was made a prisoner, but the shooting still went on. The skylight was covered with canvas in another attempt to stop the sniping. The man at the wheel was in constant danger. On one occasion a bullet passed close to his face, and another dented the brass rim of the wheel.

From Friday until the following Tuesday the drama continued. The officers had no chart or compass — all were in the captain's stronghold. Bargaining was attempted, and the captain was at length persuaded to exchange a compass for a bucket of water, but he would give them no charts. It was hopeless to try to drive him out. The cabin was impregnable, especially when it was the ship's armory as well. All the food, too, except a little in the cook's galley, was in the cabin, and the members of the crew were put on an allowance of half an ounce of bread per meal.

The first mate. Anderson, took charge of the ship. He intended to make for Port Adelaide, but when the ship was off Backstairs Passage the main-topsail broke, and being unable to beat through the passage, he decided to run for Melbourne. The second mate knew Portland well, and the nearer port was decided on.

Water was lowered to the captain in a bucket, but although perishing from thirst, he kicked the bucket over. He did this repeatedly. One day when the crew was engaged washing down the deck, the point of an auger was seen protruding through it. Alongside it were two auger holes, through which the captain had hoped to get a shot at the crew.

He seemed well disposed towards Reeve — one of the crew — but shot him in the face with one of the revolvers when the man attempted to open up negotiations.

Late in the afternoon of May 8, the ship arrived at Portland Bay and anchored. The pilot boat, in charge of William Rosevear, went off to it, and the pilot demanded to know why the ship had anchored without his authority. The mate told his story, and the pilot's anger quickly gave way to pity.

Going to the cabin, Mr. Rosevear called out, 'Captain Leask, are you there?' 'Yes,' came the answer. 'Do you know that your ship's at anchor?' 'I do. They had a fine cheek to anchor without my permission.'

The pilot then told the captain where his ship was, and promised to come back in the morning to take him ashore. The captain had spoken rationally, and the fever, apparently, had left him.

Next morning the pilot boat returned, bringing a medical officer and the police. The doctor attended to the sailor who had been wounded in the cheek, and preparations were made to take the captain ashore. All was quiet within the cabin. The cabin hatch was removed, and saying 'Follow me' one of the police men sprang in and landed on the cabin table. The man whom they had feared was there, seated at the table, with two revolvers in front of him. He was dead — from exhaustion following the delirium of the fever.

An inquest was held on shore, and Captain Leask — only 38 years of age — was buried in the south cemetery, where the owners erected a memorial stone over his grave.

An examination of the captain's cabin revealed chaos. Mahogany fittings were ruined, and the skylight stanchions had been cut with an axe. On the starboard side, forwards, the master's stateroom, was divided from the dining cabin by a bulkhead, through which 12 bullets had been fired. Undischarged arms— including some of the most powerful— were lying around. Fittings were blazed and scorched. One small door led into the companion way. This was battened up, and a loaded musket with a five-inch charge was placed so that the captain— from his bed— could rake the doorway as soon as anyone attempted to enter.— C.V.H.

How The Swagman Was Routed

About twenty years ago one of the best-known characters in the South East was a swagman who went under the name of Tommy Taylor. Though Tommy was a typical swagman of the old school, who would often walk all night and sleep in an haystack or a boxthorn hedge, he was, nevertheless, sufficiently modern as to refer to him self as a 'gentleman on a walking tour.'

As a walker there was no denying his capabilities, for, one day he would be seen in a town, and next day some body would see him about forty miles away. It has been stated that his greatest distances were accomplished after any householder to whom he had appealed for food attempted to introduce him to an axe or spade.

However, his greatest walking feat eventuated after the following incident which occurred near Robe. One night Tommy came upon the camp of two teamsters, who, it happened, has just taken their guns and gone out for a shot. Deciding to ask for a feed, Tommy sat down in front of the fire to await their return. Over the fire, the customary bushman's fire-galley had been rigged. This consisted of a rail supported by two forked sticks, which had been driven into the ground. The height of the rail from the ground was about three feet, and suspended from it was a camp-oven and a billy full of water. Tommy had had a long walk that day, and the warmth of the fire made him drowsy. He was sitting there with his eyes half closed when the camp owners returned.

Recognising their visitor, they decided to play a joke on him. Slipping a cartridge into his gun, one man quietly crept up behind him, and holding the barrel within a few inches of Tommy right ear, he aimed into the fire and pulled the trigger.

The result was astounding. With a wild cry, Tommy leapt clean over the top rail of the fire galley. 'Got him!'' roared the shooter. From a few yards further back, his friend cried, 'Did you drop him?'

Waiting for no more, Tommy sped off into the darkness at a speed that would not have disgraced a racing car.

Four hours later, he was seen in Kingston — more than twenty miles away. As far as can be ascertained, he never returned to the Robe district, and his swag and billy which he left behind during his hurried departure remained at the spot where he had left them for years afterwards. However, as the swag consisted of nothing more than a bundle of rolled up bags, and the billy was made out of a large treacle tin, it is unlikely that their loss occasioned their owner any great hardship. —A.H.B.

Luck And A Prospector

Gold, they say, is where you find it, and the same may be said of luck — that fickle jade that dogs the steps of the prospector as he follows the lure of the precious metal. An instance of that fickleness may be found in the story of Mr. H. Gaston, a miner at heart who sought the elusive yellow gleam of alluvial on the Barossa fields for more than 50 years.

Occasionally he deserted his holding, only to return, buoyed up by the hope of finding the mother lode of the specks that drift down in the creeks. Luck, it appears, was ever against him.

He left Teetulpa on the trail of gold in 1881, after hearing of the strike at Barossa. He arrived at Gawler and put up for the night at the Old Spot Hotel, only to learn in the morning that a similar rush had started at Teetulpa and that many local prospectors were striking it rich.

Disappointed at his luck Gaston, together with Percy Draper and Bill Kennewell, pegged claims of ten square yards in the heart of the rush and were among the first of the 6,000 men who sought gold on a few square acres of ground during the hectic days of 'Sinun's Rush.'

Bad luck dogged his steps and his claim yielded little gold, although, ironically enough, men panned as much as half an ounce of pure gold to the tub on all sides. After nine months of hard work, Gaston and his partners sold their gold and paid all expenses. They left their claims with a profit of 7/9 each.

Gaston next sunk £150 in a mine opened up by local prospectors. After a series of misfortunes he decided to finance the enterprise no longer and left, against the advice of the others, who kept on and finally struck enough gold to enable them to leave the claim with a profit of £300 each.

Living in a mud home, Gaston carried on his search. He diverted the course of the stream where it flows down Spike Gully to join Nuggety and Two Speck Gullies, With sufficient water in the creek, a bank of hundreds of tons of earth could be barred down and washed, but there is not sufficient water. The old prospector was certain that, with abundant water, from £500 to £600 worth of gold could be taken from the bank in a season, and Gaston knew Barossa better than any other man alive.

Luck played her trump card when ill-health forced the old prospector from the field for good, a little more than a year ago.— F.C.

Real Life Stories Of South Australia (1937, March 18). Chronicle (Adelaide, SA : 1895 - 1954), p. 47. http://nla.gov.au/nla.news-article92468172