Grisly past for cat­tle­men cap­tured in diary en­tries

Lawn Hill Sta­tion has a deep and dark his­tory

The Western Star - - Rural Weekly - Can­dace Sut­ton [email protected]­ral­

WARN­ING: This ar­ti­cle in­cludes sensitive and graphic con­tent.

THE house where 40 pairs of hu­man ears were nailed up around the walls still stands up in the Gulf coun­try, in a re­mote part of the out­back most Aus­tralians have never seen.

The grand old homestead is above a bend of a river which cuts deep gorges through the vast tract of wood­land and sa­vanna bor­der­ing the Gulf of Car­pen­taria.

It is called Lawn Hill sta­tion, and it lies smack bang in Waanyi coun­try, the tribal ter­ri­tory of an indige­nous gulf peo­ple who occupied around 25,000 square kilo­me­tres of land be­tween north-western Queens­land and the eastern North­ern Ter­ri­tory.

More re­cently, Lawn Hill was known as the lo­ca­tion of the world’s big­gest zinc mine, Century, once owned by Rio Tinto.

But back in the 1880s it was the site of atroc­i­ties against the Waanyi, the mo­lest­ing of their chil­dren, the raping of their women, the shoot­ing of their men, and the tak­ing of their body parts as tro­phies.

The two men linked to the tro­phy ears – the owner of Lawn Hill, Frank Hann, and his sta­tion man­ager, Jack Wat­son – are both recorded as hav­ing cut off the heads of

Abo­rig­ines and pre­sented them as sou­venirs or bounty.

These atroc­i­ties were com­mit­ted when Wat­son had moved on from Lawn Hill to the North­ern Ter­ri­tory and Hann had mi­grated to Western Aus­tralia.

The 40 pairs of ears nailed on Lawn Hill’s walls were the ears of Waanyi peo­ple.

But that in­famy would have been re­garded just as a tale handed down by the Waanyi to the cur­rent gen­er­a­tion, if not for the diary en­tries of a young white woman.

And but for the al­most ac­ci­den­tal discovery of the diary of Emily Caro­line Creaghe, ly­ing un­pub­lished on a shelf, the story may never have been told.

Then a 22-year-old new­ly­wed, Creaghe had been liv­ing in Aus­tralia for only seven years after em­i­grat­ing from Eng­land when she wrote her diary.

She pre­ceded by more than two decades her more fa­mous suc­ces­sor Jeanne Gunn, au­thor of the cel­e­brated book turned movie, We of The Never Never.

Creaghe is now cred­ited as the first white fe­male to ex­plore re­mote Aus­tralia, not only brav­ing the fron­tiers of an oth­er­wise all-male do­main, but record­ing it all in sear­ing de­tail.

Her rec­ol­lec­tions of re­la­tions be­tween white and Abo­rig­i­nal Aus­tralians touch on degra­da­tion, abuse and the prob­a­ble mur­der of colo­nial era Abo­rig­ines.

But Creaghe’s hand­writ­ten diary might still be just another un­pub­lished man­u­script on the shelves of the Mitchell Li­brary in Syd­ney had Ade­laide his­to­rian Peter Monteath not hap­pened upon it.

A Flin­ders Univer­sity pro­fes­sor of his­tory, Monteath was re­search­ing Aus­tralian ex­plor­ers when he came across Creaghe’s diary, do­nated to the li­brary by her de­scen­dants.

First pub­lished in 2004,

The Diary of Emily Caro­line Creaghe is now throw­ing light on the vi­o­lence per­pe­trated against indige­nous peo­ple by Wat­son and Hann, who were once hailed as heroes and pi­o­neers of early Aus­tralia.

These are the two men di­rectly con­nected with the house at Lawn Hill, known to some as “Lorne Hill”, on whose walls, as recorded by Creaghe, the ears were nailed.

In early 1883, “Carrie” as Creaghe was known, was stay­ing at the Shad­forth fam­ily’s Li­ly­dale sta­tion at Carl Creek in the Gulf.

In De­cem­ber, 1882 she had set sail from Syd­ney with her hus­band, Ir­ish-born sta­tion man­ager Harry Aling­ton Creaghe for Thurs­day Is­land.

There they met up with ex­plorer Ernest Favenc to em­bark on a tour of the Gulf coun­try, from Nor­man­ton in Queens­land, to Port Dar­win in the North­ern Ter­ri­tory.

The trip was bankrolled by a news­pa­per in Queens­land, which was com­pet­ing with South Aus­tralia, to open up the hith­erto un­ex­plored land of the North­ern Ter­ri­tory for devel­op­ment.

When Favenc’s wife El­iz­a­beth be­came ill and re­turned home, Creaghe be­came the sole fe­male on the trip.

Mrs Creaghe did the whole trip on horse­back, rid­ing sidesad­dle across thou­sands of kilo­me­tres.

Monteath said Creaghe was in­trepid, coura­geous and tougher than her hus­band Harry, who self-med­i­cated against going “troppo” in the swel­ter­ing wilder­ness with lau­danum (opium) on the jour­ney.

While Favenc ac­com­pa­nied his preg­nant wife back to Syd­ney, Creaghe – who would also be­come preg­nant on the jour­ney – spent three months wait­ing at Li­ly­dale, 65km south of Lawn Hill.

In 1883, the con­di­tions were atro­cious, with the heat and the lack of fa­cil­i­ties.

Creaghe wrote that Mr and Mrs Shad­forth lived there “with their ten chil­dren in four rooms but no ceil­ings”.

On Thurs­day, March 8, 1883, Creaghe wrote in her diary:

“We slept again out­side, but even then it was too hot to sleep. Mr Bob Shad­forth went up to ‘Lorne hill’ Mr Jack Wat­son’s and Mr Frank Hann’s sta­tion about 40 miles away.

“Very hot. No rain. Mr Wat­son has 40 pairs of blacks’ ears nailed around the walls col­lected dur­ing raid­ing par­ties after the loss of many cat­tle speared by the blacks.”

Creaghe wrote daily in her diary.

A few days later she wrote, “The blacks are par­tic­u­larly ag­gres­sive in this dis­trict.” On March 20, she wrote: “The rainy sea­son seems to have set in, in real good earnest; it has been rain­ing heav­ily nearly all day. Mr Shad­forth & Ernest Shad­forth came home, but had to leave the dray at Gre­gory Downs as the roads were too heavy & the rivers too high. They brought a new black gin with them; she can­not speak a word of English. Mr Shad­forth put a rope around the gin’s neck & dragged her along on foot, he was rid­ing. This seems to be the usual method.

And on the fol­low­ing day, Creaghe en­tered:

“No rain this morn­ing, but dull & cloudy. Rained all the af­ter­noon in show­ers. The new gin, whom they call Bella, is chained up to a tree a few yards from the house, she is not to be loosed un­til they think she is tamed. Madame Topsey, an old gin got a thresh­ing.”

There­after, Carrie Creagh’s diary en­tries re­fer to the flies as “some­thing dread­ful”, a plague of beetles, the al­li­ga­tors, the heat, the wet and the ter­ri­ble food.

On 10 April: “Mr Craw­ford’s re­mains were found, killed by the blacks. Mr La­mond has gone out to get hold of the wretches and give them their desserts.”

On April 14, Ernest Favenc re­joined the Creaghes with over­land tele­graph of­fi­cer, and as­sis­tant, Lind­say Craw­ford, and the party forged on into ter­ri­tory un­ex­plored by Euro­peans.

Creaghe’s diary re­flects the para­noia.

Her en­try of April 15 notes that all party mem­bers car­ried re­volvers and the gen­tle­men had ri­fles slung on their sad­dles.

On Mon­day, April 23, Creaghe wrote, “We are now on what is called the ‘Ta­ble-land’, a flat piece of coun­try on the top of a very high moun­tain.

“We are now in un­ex­plored coun­try where no white man has been be­fore, so it is un­cer­tain when we may see wa­ter again.”

They reached Daly Wa­ters in the North­ern Ter­ri­tory on July 15 and Port Dar­win on Au­gust 14, 1883.

Back at Lawn Hill sta­tion, the two men named by Creaghe as the own­ers of the house where the 40 pairs of ears were nailed, Wat­son and Hann, were forg­ing rep­u­ta­tions as so-called leg­ends in the wild Aus­tralian north.

The house ac­tu­ally be­longed to Hann, who would later be lauded as a pas­toral­ist and ex­plorer, but who in real­ity had a dark and dis­turb­ing his­tory with indige­nous Aus­tralians.

Wat­son was the man­ager of Lawn Hill, pos­si­bly in part­ner­ship with Hann.

But he too would later be cel­e­brated as “the king of the Gulf” even if it was cou­pled with an un­easy ac­knowl­edg­ment of his rep­u­ta­tion for vi­o­lent and sadis­tic treat­ment of Abo­rig­i­nals.

Waanyi indige­nous com­mu­nity leader Alec Doomadgee said the sto­ries told to him by his late grand­fa­ther Stan­ley Doomadgee point to Hann be­ing “a to­tal mon­ster”.

Stan­ley, a Ganaglidda and Garawa tribal man, worked most of his life as a ringer in Waanyi coun­try and “told many sto­ries of Frank Hann’s bru­tal­ity”.

Alec Doomadgee also heard sto­ries about Hann from his Waanyi step­fa­ther Don Ge­orge and his brother, Tommy Ge­orge.

The oral his­tory from Alec’s fam­ily about Hann and oth­ers in­cludes tales, of rape, child mo­lesta­tion, mur­der and revenge.

Monteath puts the con­flict be­tween whites and blacks in the his­tor­i­cal con­text as the com­pe­ti­tion for re­sources as Euro­peans forged into Abo­rig­i­nal lands, driv­ing cat­tle across the Ter­ri­tory and set­tling.

He said the late 1800s and early 1900s in far North­ern Aus­tralia were “very tense and trou­bled times in the north­ern fron­tier” when ex­plor­ers and pi­o­neers “trav­elled in a state of para­noia”.

But at Lawn Hill came to­gether two men who shared an at­ti­tude to Abo­rig­i­nals of ruth­less bru­tal­ity.

And at that iso­lated lo­ca­tion, even now a nine-hour jour­ney north-west from Mount Isa along sealed and un­sealed roads, they got away with it. Wat­son was a pri­vate school­boy from Mel­bourne who would be­come known in Queens­land as “Mad Jack” and “Long Jack”, be­cause unlike the diminu­tive Hann, he was six-foot-one (186cm).

He is re­mem­bered as “splen­did ath­lete and boxer … and a ter­ror on the blacks”.

He also be­came known as “The Gulf King” or “The Gulf Hero”, the lat­ter per­haps sar­cas­ti­cally ap­plied by those who thought he was gen­uinely mad, or a ter­ri­ble show-off.

It was a trait which would fin­ish him off at the age of just 44.

He was the el­dest of nine sons born to a prom­i­nent fam­ily whose pa­tri­arch was Ge­orge Wat­son, master of Mel­bourne Hunt Club and the starter at Flem­ing­ton Race­course. As well as Emily Caro­line Creaghe’s diary ref­er­ence to the ears Wat­son had nailed to Lawn Hill’s walls, ac­counts of Wat­son’s ex­ploits are recorded in news­pa­pers and in books about the Ter­ri­tory. His wild ex­ploits some peo­ple thought verged on madness. Be­fore he went to North­ern Aus­tralia, he was known for his mad stunts.

These in­cluded stand­ing on his head on the edge of the cliff above The Gap at

Wat­sons Bay to show off to fel­low pic­nick­ers.

Wat­son was known for be­ing a “flash” or ec­cen­tric dresser. Even up in the Gulf coun­try, he was known to sport a pair of Mex­i­can spurs and a foot­ball jer­sey.

After trav­el­ling the world, he ended up in the Gulf, manag­ing Lawn Hill sta­tion in 1883 be­fore he moved on to the North­ern Ter­ri­tory to man­age prop­er­ties in Arn­hem Land.

In 1895, he moved to Vic­to­ria River Downs –the sta­tion later ac­quired by leg­endary cat­tle­man Sid­ney Kid­man – where he was in­volved in the slaugh­ter of tribes­peo­ple, ex­hibit­ing extreme sadism.

Wat­son was known for his stern dis­ap­proval of white men who kept Abo­rig­i­nal women with them on a sta­tion and meted out pun­ish­ment to those who flouted his ban.

Ernes­tine Hill wrote of Wat­son’s “ef­fi­ciency” of deal­ing with wild Abo­rig­i­nals.

“There is a story,” she wrote, “I do not like to be­lieve it true.

“That hear­ing of a Bur­ke­town sta­tion pestered by cat­tle-killers, he promised to set the mat­ter right.

“Rid­ing back in a week he threw eleven skulls on the ta­ble with a jaunty ‘There you are! No more trou­ble out there!’.”

Another story about Wat­son and the skulls of Abo­rig­i­nals was re­vealed in a let­ter writ­ten by a North­ern Ter­ri­tory po­lice­man, W. H. Will­shire.

Recorded in the Vic­to­ria River Dis­trict Dooms­day Book, the let­ter was writ­ten in re­sponse to an in­quiry about the fate of an Abo­rig­i­nal man named Pom­pey.

Will­shire wrote, “I have the hon­our to state that three na­tives by that name came to their death in my time in the far north”.

One was rounded up and shot dead for cat­tle steal­ing, and another was shot “by

na­tive po­lice” for “killing a lit­tle civilised black­boy be­long­ing to James Wood­forde”.

The third was a “civilised black­boy” who ran away from Vic­to­ria River Downs with firearms in Fe­bru­ary 1895 with another boy, Jimmy, “and joined wild na­tives 4 miles from my hut”.

Will­shire writes that the “wild” na­tives killed the civilised boys.

“Some months after when the bod­ies of Pom­pey and Jimmy had suf­fi­ciently dried I went out and brought both their sculls [sic] in and buried them in my gar­den … [as]

John Wat­son man­ager for Golds­bor­ough Mort & Co, stated that he wanted Pom­peys scull [sic] for a spit­toon”.

Will­shire later crit­i­cised Wat­son’s man­age­ment of the sta­tion, claim­ing, “Wat­son has such a bad name amongst blacks that they are fright­ened to re­main, nearly ev­ery white man has left, and there will not be a sin­gle per­son left”. Wat­son’s man­age­ment of Vic­to­ria River Downs was per­haps af­fected by his gen­uine madness.

His ex­ploits of der­ring do con­tin­ued, Gordon Buchanan wrote, div­ing into the croc­o­dile-in­fested Vic­to­ria River to re­trieve a lost hat, shoot­ing at jam tins bal­anced on a stock­boy’s head.

Re­turn­ing to Lawn Hill from after de­liv­er­ing a mob of cat­tle to the McArthur River (550km away over the bor­der in the North­ern Ter­ri­tory), Wat­son heard about a trou­ble­some group of Abo­rig­ines who had speared four horses.

Wat­son spent two weeks track­ing and hunt­ing down the “black”, shoot­ing them un­til all were dead.

In May 1895, after a group of Abo­rig­i­nals at­tacked team­sters James Mul­li­gan and Ge­orge Li­gar who were bring­ing in sup­ply stores, Wat­son re­port­edly led a revenge mis­sion on which 60 black men were shot dead.

On April 1, 1896, while swim­ming stock across the Katherine River, Wat­son told Li­gar he would swim across to the town side, re­fus­ing Li­gar’s of­fer of a lift in his boat.

At a spot where croc­o­diles fre­quented, Wat­son jumped in. Li­gar no­ticed Wat­son strug­gling then Wat­son dis­ap­peared. His drowning was as­cribed to cramp, al­li­ga­tors or be­ing hit by drift­wood.

A tomb­stone and rail­ing was erected to mark his last rest­ing place and an obit­u­ary in the North­ern Ter­ri­tory Times man­aged to gloss over Wat­son’s worst atroc­i­ties.

“In mat­ters of hon­our he was as straight as a gun-bar­rel,” it be­gan, say­ing “Wat­son had a great deal of the dare­devil in him.

“Many who knew his pe­cu­liar­i­ties looked upon him as fool­hardy … he had ‘brushes’ in­nu­mer­able with ma­raud­ing na­tives.

“But so far as we know never got a scratch him­self, while the na­tives more than once re­ceived ter­ri­bly se­vere lessons.

“The pun­ish­ment in one case at least be­ing tended to in a man­ner that was much talked of in the Gulf coun­try.

“His ideas of revenge for murders or sta­tion depre­da­tions com­mit­ted by the blacks were scarcely or­tho­dox, but they were gen­er­ally up to re­quire­ments.

“He claimed to be a fa­tal­ist and like all oth­ers of that faith he be­lieved that when his time had come he would be

‘rubbed out’ but not be­fore.”

Two months after Wat­son’s death, his old friend Hann would pass through one of the North­ern Ter­ri­tory sta­tions Wat­son had man­aged. It was June, 1896, and Hann was leav­ing Lawn Hill for good to make a new life in Western Aus­tralia.

He left be­hind him a fear­some rep­u­ta­tion. Hann had ar­rived aged six from Eng­land to Vic­to­ria in 1851.

By 1862, with his brother Wil­liam, he was driv­ing his first mob of cat­tle to the Con­damine, in Queens­land’s western downs re­gion, around 350km west of Bris­bane.

They es­tab­lished two sta­tions in the Bur­den River area near Townsville and around this time Hann met ex­plorer Favenc.

Gold was dis­cov­ered on one, but the brothers dis­solved their part­ner­ship and Hann went to Lawn Hill, where he would ul­ti­mately fail as a cat­tle pro­ducer.

Hann was de­scribed as “small and slight of stature” and in sev­eral ac­counts de­scribed dif­fer­ent young Abo­rig­i­nal com­pan­ions as his “splen­did black boy”.

He sunk an ex­per­i­men­tal mine shaft on Lawn Hill, and lead and sil­ver were later ex­tracted, but by this time Hann had left.

In 1879 he car­ried out ex­ploratory work, driv­ing bul­lock to Dar­win. He is cred­ited with be­ing the first white man to take stock from the Gulf to the North­ern Ter­ri­tory, open­ing up stock routes and pas­toral leases.

Long since grown over with bark, trees in the King

Leopold Ranges are carved with his in­ti­tals “FH” and dates from the late 19th century. Hann’s at­ti­tude to Abo­rig­ines may have been in­flu­enced by oc­ca­sions on which he was at­tacked.

In 1876 at Bat­tle Creek, south-west of Cairns, he nar­rowly es­caped in­jury when the sleeve of his coat was speared as his gold es­cort from the Palmer gold­field was at­tacked.

While at Lawn Hill, Hann was shot by the Abo­rig­i­nal bushranger Joe Flick, after Flick broke out of Nor­man­ton jail.

Hann was to travel widely through­out Western Aus­tralia, and be­tween 1893 and 1906 he and Talbot trav­elled alone through­out re­mote Aus­tralia. In April 1909, Perth’s

Western Mail news­pa­per pub­lished a let­ter writ­ten by Hann about one of his ex­pe­di­tions with the ti­tles “At­tacks by Na­tives. An In­ter­est­ing Nar­ra­tive”.

Hann had just vis­ited Mt Mor­gans, near Laver­ton 900km west of Perth, where gold was dis­cov­ered in 1896.

Hann was work­ing for the Min­is­ter for Lands and Sur­veyor Gen­eral ex­plor­ing the mulga coun­try when he ob­served grass fires.

“I asked Talbot (my splen­did black boy) if he had fired the grass,” Hann writes.

“On re­ceiv­ing an an­swer in the neg­a­tive, I said: ‘the blacks are handy and will be up all night’.

“We went on that day to a camp I call Point Lil­ian.

“Just after night­fall I no­ticed that the spinifex fire was again quite close to us and said to Talbot: ‘here are the blacks; they will be up in the morn­ing’.”

The next morn­ing, Hann asks “the smartest one” in sign lan­guage a ques­tion and then of­fers them a meal be­fore mak­ing the “smart one” to haul wa­ter for Hann’s camels and horses.

He ties “a large piece of turkey-red” (red dyed cloth) “around the smart fel­low’s body and a white hand­ker­chief around his neck”. Hann then takes off with Talbot, and around 3km from their camp turns around and sees the boy he has tied up in red cloth about to throw a spear at him.

Hann ducks, the spear grazes his back, and he takes a shot at the boy and hears “a yell”.

The other three boys point spears at him, one misses him with a woomera.

Hann then writes “had I shot the black with the red band I would have cut his head off and sent the skull to Mr F, Brock­man, of Perth, who asked me to send one, as a friend of his in Lon­don wanted one.

“I was very sorry I could not send him the four, but later on I got him a splen­did one.

“We seemed to have struck a bad lot of black on the jour­ney.”

Hann’s let­ter spark a storm of protest, out­raged let­ters and an ed­i­to­rial the next week dub­bing him “Head Hunter Hann”

The sub­head­ings in­cluded “he wanted a head for Mr Brock­man”, “who de­sired it sent to Lon­don” and “After N*ggers for their skulls”, the “N” word be­ing not in­fre­quently used at the time.

The ar­ti­cle de­scribes

Hann’s “An In­ter­est­ing Nar­ra­tive” as “it is in­ter­est­ing right enough.

“It’s more than that; it’s sen­sa­tional … in parts hor­ri­fy­ing.

“It … sheds some light on the much dis­cussed ques­tion as to how n*ggers are treated … in that God-for­saken re­gion.

“Ev­i­dently they are classed with kan­ga­roos.”

The ar­ti­cle goes on to say, “this pa­per once met a man who told it that some years ago he and oth­ers often went out … ‘n*gger-shoot­ing’ … simply for sport.

“A man who so glibly talks of procur­ing spec­i­men heads is very ev­i­dently one to be classed with those who look upon the South Aus­tralian abo­rig­i­nal as a species of use­less game to be shot down at sight as one would shoot a kan­ga­roo.”

The ar­ti­cle does then state shoot­ing an Abo­rig­i­nal “in self-de­fence” may be per­mit­ted, but ques­tions whether it is “al­low­able to re­move the head or any other por­tions of the body for dis­tri­bu­tion among the slayer’s friends”.

The ar­ti­cle then queries the in­tegrity of Hann as a wit­ness at the royal com­mis­sion into the Can­ning ex­plo­ration party.

In 1906, at the be­hest of the WA Gov­ern­ment, Al­bert Can­ning sur­veyed a 1850km stock route which linked wells through the western deserts for the pur­pose of im­prov­ing beef mar­ket sup­ply for gra­ziers.

Some Abo­rig­ines co-op­er­ated with Can­ning, oth­ers were neck-chained and sub­jected to a tor­ture which in­volved feed­ing them salt in the hot sun to force them to lead the party to wa­ter sources.

A royal com­mis­sion in 1908 called Hann, and WA”s in­au­gu­ral premier, Sir John For­rest (great uncle of min­ing bil­lion­aire An­drew “Twiggy” For­rest), among dozens of wit­nesses.

The Western Mail ar­ti­cle ques­tions Hann’s tes­ti­mony that “the blacks were in­vari­ably well treated and that as a mat­ter of fact, ev­ery con­sid­er­a­tion com­pat­i­ble with keep­ing them in or­der was ex­tended to them by the bush­men”.

Another re­sponse to Hann’s let­ter about shoot­ing and de­cap­i­tat­ing Abo­rig­i­nals was a mock­ing poem which be­gins, “My name’s Frank Hann, I kill all I can”.

Penned by some­one who gives them­selves the moniker “Dry­blower”, it con­tin­ues, “I al­ways try, when my vic­tims die, to care­fully save the skull”.

Hann would con­tinue to live in Western Aus­tralia un­til his death in 1921, on which glow­ing obituaries were writ­ten just as they had been for Wat­son, but with no men­tion of bru­tal­ity to Abo­rig­i­nal peo­ple.

Dif­fer­ent obituaries noted that a fall from his horse had ended Hann’s ex­plor­ing ac­tiv­i­ties and his eye­sight had failed.

“His was a pa­thetic end­ing. He died in strait­ened cir­cum­stances in his 74th year – a blind and bro­ken man, still faith­fully served by his black­boy Talbot, him­self grown grey in the ser­vice of his master.”

Alec Doomadgee plans to tell a drama­tised ver­sion of the story of Hann at Lawn Hill at a Gulf Coun­try Fes­ti­val and rodeo the Waanyi Pre­scribed Bod­ies Cor­po­rate is hold­ing this Au­gust in Bur­ke­town.

Lawn Hill River­sleigh Pas­toral Hold­ing Com­pany is now partly owned (49 per cent) by min­ing com­pany New Century Re­sources and (51 per cent) by its tra­di­tional own­ers, Waanyi Ad­vance­ment Lim­ited.

Last year Mr Doomadgee led a gath­er­ing to re­claim Lawn Hill, lead­ing a con­voy of Waanyi to the homestead where he re­told the story about the 40 pairs of Waanyi ears on its walls.

After Emily Caro­line

Creaghe and hus­band Harry left the expedition to the North­ern Ter­ri­tory, they re­turned to Queens­land to live in Rock­hamp­ton.

Harry Creaghe was ac­ci­den­tally killed, aged 38, in Rock­hamp­ton in 1887 while Carrie was preg­nant with their third son.

In 1889 she mar­ried sta­tion man­ager Joseph Bar­nett and had six more chil­dren.

Carrie Bar­nett died in 1944 in Royal North Shore Hos­pi­tal and in 2004 an edited ver­sion of her diary was pub­lished by Monteath.


STUN­NING BEAUTY: Lawn Hill Gorge, in Bood­ja­mulla Na­tional Park.


The Diary of Emily Caro­line Creaghe was ly­ing un­pub­lished ona li­brary shelf when hiso­rian Peter Monteath found it and the young ex­plorer's rev­e­la­tions be­came known to the world.


The Graves of Nym who was killed by Joe Flick the bushranger and Jenny (who died years later) at Lawn Hill Sta­tion.


Frank Hann had 40 pairs of Abo­rig­ines ears as tro­phies on the wall of his Lawn Hill homestead.

Ernest Favenc led the expedition that Caro­line Creaghe at­tended.

Jack Wat­son was known for be­ing cruel and vi­o­lent.

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