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I thought the incident was over, and got ready for my dinner. As I was entering the dining-room at the Club Sir Jenkin Coles, the Speaker of the House, a close friend of Kingston’s, spoke to me about it. I told him the decision of the Crown Solicitor left the matter in Kingston’s favour; he had been ordered to appear before me in accordance with the usual custom of the Service to be finally dealt with. Sir Jenkin asked me if this was necessary. “No,” I answered; “if Sergeant Kingston signs a statement to the effect that he is satisfied with the cause of his being placed under arrest and the action taken in this matter by the military authorities I don’t want to see him at the office.” No sooner had I said this than Sir Jenkin rose from the dinner table to return in ten minutes with a written statement, signed by Kingston, to the effect that he was quite satisfied with the action taken by the authorities. So ended this extraordinary episode, but I was told by a good many friends that I had driven a nail in my coffin as regarded the Commandantship. The appointment was practically in Kingston’s hand. But those friends of mine did not know him.

General Downes left Adelaide. The Government gave no indication of their intentions re the appointment of his successor. The mayor’s official ball took place. Charles Cameron Kingston was talking to the Governor. He beckoned me and said: “I have just informed His Excellency that the Government have appointed you a colonel and Commandant of our forces.” His Excellency warmly congratulated me. I thanked Kingston.

My vision was fulfilled.

CHAPTER VII
THE GREAT STRIKES

In 1890 the great maritime strike had its birth in Sydney. The original strikers were the wharf labourers, who paralysed all business. The strike spread rapidly to practically all the chief ports of Australia. The Government at Sydney trusted more to the support of the merchants and producers, whose interests were being so assailed, than to the power that lay in their hands to tackle the strikers by the aid of the military forces. The police, under the able guidance of Mr. Fosberry, then Chief Commissioner, did their work splendidly, but the situation became too critical. Bank managers, insurance agents, squatters, architects and others took off their coats and waistcoats, loaded and unloaded the trolleys, and worked like common labourers. The farthest point that the Government would go towards assisting the police in keeping order was to detail a restricted number of mounted riflemen to protect the willing volunteer workers from the assaults of the strikers.

In sympathy with the action taken in Sydney the Wharfmen’s Unions in all the other chief ports of Australia joined their comrades, and Port Adelaide became a head centre. Previous to this the South Australian Government had entered into an agreement with the Government of Western Australia to train some fifty Permanent Force Artillerymen to garrison the newly constructed forts at Albany. This detachment were just completing their time at Largs Fort, so that the little Permanent Force under my command in South Australia numbered some 130, of all ranks. The strikers at Port Adelaide set to work with a good will. Every vessel in the harbour was picketed, every approach to the wharves guarded. Business was at an absolute standstill. Large mass meetings of strikers were held morning and afternoon. The police, under Mr. Peterswald, reinforced by a large draft from the country districts, could do no more than just maintain order. The situation was more than serious. Mr. Peterswald ventured to appear at a mass meeting one afternoon, hoping that he might cast a little oil on the troubled waters. He came out on the balcony of a hotel, facing the huge crowd of strikers. A quaint scene followed. Some wags called out, “Take off your hat, Peter.” They wanted to get authority – as personified by the Commissioner – to bow to them. Peterswald quickly recognized the position and, lifting his hat, said to them: “I am glad to meet you, men. I hope you will go back to your work and put an end to this serious trouble,” and quickly left the balcony. The majority cheered and laughed. But their leaders were on the job. The word was passed on to the strikers that, about twelve o’clock that night, they would receive definite instructions from their section leaders as to their future action. All their pickets and guards were doubled that night, and specially the guard on the railway bridge across the Port River, which connected Port Adelaide with the shore and the forts.

During that afternoon I had given instructions that every available man of our Permanent Force was to assemble at Fort Glanville, with a view to a gun competition next day. Parliament was sitting. I was at Fort Glanville, much occupied in laying down the conditions for next day’s gun practice. In the course of the evening Mr. Playford, the Defence Minister, telephoned me from Parliament House to be ready to march with my men under arms to Port Adelaide. As this was the first time that – as far as I knew – an order had been issued by any Australian Government to its permanent troops to march under arms to assist the police in quelling civil riots, I asked that the instructions should be sent to me in writing. The final words I heard on the telephone were, “Your instructions will reach you by a mounted orderly in plenty of time for you to act.”

At about eleven o’clock that evening the mounted orderly arrived, and at three in the morning – it was summer time, a moonlight night, practically as clear as day – we marched out of the fort on our way to Port Adelaide, where I found close on 400 police, mounted and foot, all armed. The Government had, therefore, some 500 armed men to cope with the strikers if they persisted in carrying out their threats. Half-past five came. It was daylight. The inspector in charge of the police patrols which had been posted the previous evening at all important bridges and approaches to the wharves suggested that I should accompany him to view the situation. We rode out together. Nobody was to be seen; the port was as quiet as if it were Sunday morning. The strike leaders had become fully aware of the determination of the Government to deal firmly with any attempt on their part to disturb the public peace, and had deemed discretion the better part of valour. The strike was virtually over, and, after providing a good breakfast for my men, we marched back to Fort Glanville in peace and quiet. This was the only instance that I am aware of in the history of the Australian colonies when the members of the Permanent Forces were actually called out and marched under arms to the assistance of the civil power. Let us hope it will be the last.

Hardly were these troubles over when another large body of Australian workers held up one of Australia’s chief industries. The shearers, the clippers of the fleeces, struck work. The shearers are a roving crowd, who move from north to south of Australia’s vast territory and back again. Most of them are well known to the squatters who employ them. The same old story – more wages, better conditions of living. My own opinions as to the rights and wrongs of the shearers’ claims may be of no value, but my sympathies were certainly on their side as regarded, at least, the conditions of living at the sheds.

I had had personal experience of how quickly utter ruin falls upon the squatter. It is a question often of living in affluence one day and having not a penny left within nine months. To record the names of the squatters personally known to myself who had thus suffered would be a sad task. They were many. However, their failure was not brought about by the demands of the shearers. The granting of these demands in prosperous times could not have much hurt the interests of their employers. Providence has a special gift of casting ruin at times broadcast, without, as far as we mortals can tell, any reason or rhyme. A few inches of rain, falling at the right time of the year in any part of Australia, ensures a plentiful supply of green feed and prevents the enormous ravages amongst stock of all kinds which a drought causes.

The squatters fought their battle hard against the shearers in 1891. In Queensland they had a sympathetic Government at the time. The maritime strike had left a nasty taste in the mouths of the producers. The export trade had been held up, and the necessaries of life imported from abroad had been denied to the country districts. It was decided to adopt hard, repressive measures.

The Government summoned to their aid the Mounted Rifles. These were chiefly recruited in the country districts, and most of them were producers themselves, and the strike broke down.

It was just about this time that I accompanied His Excellency Lord Kintore, an old friend and neighbour from Aberdeenshire – then our Governor in South Australia – as far as Brisbane. Lord Kintore had, some time previously, arranged to proceed by sea to Port Darwin and undertake the overland journey from there to Adelaide through the northern territory, which was then under the administration of the South Australian Government. It was a big undertaking, and by no means a pleasure trip. We arrived in Brisbane, but, owing to the breaking down of the ss. Chingtu, we had a delay of some days in that fair capital of what will undoubtedly be in the future one of the richest of the Australian States.

We rather taxed the splendid efforts of our hospitable friends by the length of our stay. But they were not to be beaten. Strike or no strike, they laid themselves out to give us as much joy as it was possible to do in the time. I laid the foundation of many lasting friendships within those few days. Then the Chingtu, with Lord Kintore on board, left for Port Darwin, and I made my way backward to Adelaide.

The Melbourne Cup Meeting of 1891 was a fateful one for me, for I had the happiness of becoming engaged to be married. I had known my future wife for several years. She had been born in Victoria. Her father hailed from County Galway, having emigrated to South Australia with his brother, the late Hon. Nicholas Fitzgerald, than whom no public man in Australia was ever held in higher esteem by all classes. The brothers made Burra Burra, then a prosperous copper field to the north of Adelaide, their first hunting-ground. From there they moved on to Victoria, in the days of the discovery of the goldfields – Ballarat, Castlemaine, Kyneton and Bendigo. At the time I married they had prospered well enough. Later on they lost – for want of food and water – some 400,000 sheep on the various stations they were interested in. My wife and I had hopes of buying old Wardhouse, in Aberdeenshire, from my Spanish nephew. These hopes went by the board. Ours was by no means a singular experience in the history of Australian pioneers in the back country. I know of many friends who – if possible – fared worse.

I was married on February 29, 1892. At the conclusion of our honeymoon, which we spent at Gracedale House, close to the Blackspur range of hills, Victoria, we returned to Adelaide, and once again I became a resident at the Largs Bay Hotel.

When I look back to those happy days I feel thankful that my term of office cost me but small worry. I happened to be successful in maintaining quite cordial relations with the successive occupants of the ministerial chair. I was not hampered by any serious reduction in our financial vote. I was not troubled by any especially adverse criticisms on the conduct of the forces, either in Parliament or in the Press. I was able to carry out reforms which led the way to the adoption of the “Universal Service System” now in vogue in the great Commonwealth of Australia.

CHAPTER VIII
THE INTRODUCTION OF “UNIVERSAL SERVICE,” AND TWO VOYAGES HOME

From the very time that I took over the duties of my first appointment I had thought that a considerable improvement could be made in the organization of the existing forces. I had encouraged the formation of cadet corps, as far as lay in my power, and I had been splendidly supported by the Education Department in my efforts, with the result that, when I assumed the command, the cadet system was a flourishing institution. The success that attended the cadet movement, the support given to it by the parents, and the keen enthusiasm of the youngsters in their work, led me to think that the time was ripe for the introduction of a universal system of National Service, the ultimate aim of which was to ensure that every youth should, by the time that he had reached the age of manhood, twenty-five years, have undergone a course of training, which, without interfering with his civil avocation, would render him a desirable asset as a soldier. With this object in view I submitted a scheme to the Government.

General Hutton, who had by this time been appointed Commandant of New South Wales, arranged a conference of the Commandants of the States in Sydney to discuss several important matters in connexion with the defence of Australia as a whole. Two very important agenda were: (a) the necessity for determining the nature of the heavy armaments of the forts, in point of uniformity and efficiency, and (b) the co-ordination of the several systems of enlistment then in vogue throughout the States.

I informed my brother Commandants that I intended to recommend my Government to merge our Volunteers into the partially paid force, which would be a substantial move towards the simplification of the conditions of service. Further, I suggested that if the South Australian Government carried out the proposed change it would assist them materially towards effecting a similar change in their own colonies.

I did not, however, deem it advisable to mention the plans I had with reference to the introduction of universal service, for the change was a radical one. I knew that if any suspicion arose that it was proposed to introduce a form of military service compelling citizens by law to devote no matter how small a portion of their own time to military training, such proposals would at once be looked upon as simply an insidious way of creating conscription, a compulsory system of service – a form of service absolutely distasteful and foreign to us British, and even more so to British colonists. It was therefore necessary for me to take the greatest care very gradually to prepare and school the public mind so that the term “National Service,” which I had adopted for my scheme, should in no way be misunderstood for conscription, but rather that it should be looked upon simply as a personal responsibility on the part of every youth to fit himself to take part in the defence of his country, just in the same way as it was his duty to attend school or submit to any other laws governing his civil and economic life.

Kingston, with whom I had many conversations, was a most keen supporter of the Universal Service system. He agreed at once with the proposition as regarded the amalgamation of the Volunteers with the partially paid forces, and, what was more to the point, promised to find the funds required. He was very anxious to introduce and carry through Parliament, while he was Premier of South Australia, a system of National Service, which, he foresaw, would sooner or later find its way into the statutes of Federated Australia. Even so early as this Kingston was paving the way for a united Australia. He was at that time considered, notwithstanding his personal foibles, one of the ablest of the Australian Premiers.

He gave me instructions, confidentially, to draft two Bills, one embodying the provision for the adoption of the universal service, the other simply dealing with the proposed changes in organization. When the time arrived to place the proposals before Parliament Kingston had come to the conclusion that the expenditure involved in initiating National Service was greater than he could ask Parliament to vote at the time. He determined, therefore, to pigeon-hole it. The Re-organization Bill was promptly carried by both Houses and became law. The Act of Parliament fixed a date for the carrying out of the change. To avoid the clerical work involved by the carrying out of the re-attesting of the whole of the citizen forces, partially paid and Volunteer, under the new Act it was provided that every officer, non-commissioned officer and man who did not, in writing, notify his intention to sever his connexion with the forces owing to the new conditions, would continue in the service, and the date for the beginning of his period of service under the new Act, namely, three years, would be entered in his existing attestation papers by the respective commanding officers. If I remember rightly, not one and a half per cent. withdrew.

The eventful day arrived on which every member of the force ceased to be a soldier. The next day all willing to do so would be soldiers again. That night we were dining at Government House. After dinner it happened to strike the Governor that there were no soldiers in South Australia that evening with the exception of myself. So lifting up his glass he said, “Behold our army! Every soldier except one has been disbanded to-day. He is our army. Good luck to him.” And “The Army” I became to all my friends in Adelaide, and, later on, right throughout Australia.

Jubilee Year, 1897, was now close at hand. I had been steadily at work since my trip home in 1889, and was now finishing my fifth year as Commandant. Everything was working smoothly, and I was asked by Kingston if I would like to take a trip home and attend officially the Jubilee celebrations in London. I talked it over with my wife. Our two children were then just four and three years old. My wife thought that it would be more enjoyable for her and for the children if we let alone the Jubilee festivities and got six months’ leave, reaching London later on in the early summer, so that we could enjoy the autumn in Scotland and return to Australia at the end of the year. Kingston fell in with this suggestion, and I was granted six months’ leave of absence and reappointed Commandant for a further period of five years.

We sailed in the Damascus, myself and wife, little Eileen and Carlos, my youngest sister-in-law, Geraldine, and my wife’s companion, Miss Ryan, who was specially in charge of the children. The Damascus, an Aberdeen liner, was a comfortable boat; she had been a short time before fitted up to take Sir Henry Loch to South Africa. We had chosen the Cape route to avoid the Red Sea in the very hot weather. We spent a couple of days at Durban and another two at Capetown, and reached London about the middle of September. My mother and father had both passed away, and the family properties had gone to my nephew, Rafael, who was living in Spain. Wardhouse and Kildrummy Castle were let. My sister, Magda, Mrs. Lumsden of Clova, which marches with Kildrummy, had asked us to stay with her. Our plans were to go to Clova on our arrival in London, put in a couple of months shooting, visit our old friends, then move up to London, where my wife and the others would stay while I went to Egypt. There I hoped to see as much as the time at my disposal would allow of Kitchener’s campaign along the Nile.

All went well, and I left Clova for London, on my way to Egypt. I arrived at Morley’s Hotel on a Saturday. Next afternoon I received an urgent telegram to return at once, as my wife had been taken suddenly very ill. I took the first train. The telegrams I received on the journey north were very disquieting. The news on arriving at Aberdeen made me lose all hope of seeing her alive again. Providence was, however, kind. The crisis passed, and the doctors assured me she would recover in time. My plans, of course, had to be altered. I gave up my intended visit to Egypt. My wife’s recovery was very slow. We had to make our journey south in stages.

One of our stopping-places was Newcastle-on-Tyne. An amusing incident happened there. Both my wife and myself had met in Australia that charming and graceful actress, Grace Palotta. On our arrival at the hotel on a cold, dark, winter’s afternoon, I left my wife in a sitting-room and went off to attend to the rest of the family. On my return she said, “Who do you think came in just now? Grace Palotta. She is looking as pretty as ever. She quite astonished me by telling me she is staying here with her friend, the prince. Do try and find out who he is. It is quite exciting.” I thought surely there was some mistake, and told her so. “No,” she said, “that is just what she said. Do go to the theatre to-night, find out and let me know all about it.” So, after an early dinner, I went off to the theatre. As I arrived there, I noticed the big posters announcing the name of the play. The name of the play was My Friend the Prince. After the performance Grace had some supper with us and a real hearty laugh when we told her, and, in her pretty foreign way, said: “Oh, I am afraid, Mrs. Gordon, you thought I was a very naughty girl.” We met Palotta afterwards in Australia, where she had often told this little story to her friends, much to their amusement.

On arrival in London I took a house close to South Kensington Station. As time passed it became evident I would have to return to Australia alone. My wife’s health still caused me grave anxiety. My leave being up, I was obliged to depart and leave the family to follow me. I took my passage by the P. & O. ss. Himalaya, Captain Bruen, and left London at the end of 1899, once again bound for Australia and returning to my old command in Adelaide. This was my third voyage to the other end of the world. It was, as usual, full of pleasant memories. Once again I was elected president of the sports and amusement committee. With a good ship, a good captain, a full passenger list, the hearty co-operation of all, and right good weather, it was almost a record passage for comfort and enjoyment. Up to schedule time we arrived at Albany in Western Australia.

I went ashore to call upon some of my old friends, bought an evening paper, and went into the club. Whilst enjoying a pipe I glanced at one of the headings: “Death of Colonel King-Harman, Military Adviser and Inspector of Warlike Stores in London for the Australian Colonies.” You may remember that he had been appointed as a result of my visit home in 1889. He was an old Gunner friend of mine, and I had seen a good deal of him before I left London. Only the day before my departure he had written me a note to say that he was sorry he had taken a severe chill and would be unable to come and see me off the next evening. Poor Harman never recovered from that chill. It was something more serious that carried him off in five weeks.

The possibility of my succeeding him temporarily struck me. What a chance to return home to my sick wife at once! It was the opportunity of a lifetime. A convention of delegates from all the colonies was at the time sitting in Melbourne. Every Premier was attending the convention. I hastened to the post office and wired to my old friend, Charles Cameron Kingston, still South Australia’s Premier, notifying him of King-Harman’s death, and asking him to arrange with the other Premiers to postpone the appointment of King-Harman’s successor until the Himalaya reached Melbourne, requesting permission at the same time to continue my journey in her to Melbourne, instead of landing at Adelaide. Our steamer sailed from Albany before I could receive an answer, so I also asked him to wire to me at Adelaide. I felt somehow that another streak of good fortune was coming my way. Sure enough, on arrival at Adelaide, a telegram awaited me from Kingston, instructing me to proceed to Melbourne.

On arrival at Melbourne I at once went to Parliament House to see him, and told him of my wife’s severe illness, which had compelled her to remain with the children in England, and I asked him to assist me in getting Harman’s appointment. He handed me a copy of my own report of 1890, recommending that an officer on the active list of the Royal Artillery should hold the position, on which recommendation the Premiers had acted. “Now,” he said, “you are not on the ‘active list of the Royal Artillery’; how can I possibly assist you?” I had had plenty of time on the way from Albany to Melbourne to think over this difficult point, which I had foreseen. I had my answer ready. I suggested to him that I should be appointed on loan, as it were, from Australia, for a term of one year, during which time I should be granted leave of absence from my appointment of Commandant of South Australia, to which position I would return at the end of the twelve months, and then an officer of the Royal Artillery on the active list could be selected. It was a big concession I was asking for, and I knew it. I said no more. I knew my man. Kingston grasped a point quicker than any man I have ever known, except perhaps Kitchener. Both disliked superfluous words. Well, Kingston just smiled and said: “Come and lunch with me to-morrow. Good morning.”

At lunch next day there were four of us – Kingston, Sir Edward Braddon, Premier of Tasmania, Sir John Forrest, Premier of Western Australia, and your humble servant. Both Sir Edward and Sir John were old friends of mine. After lunch Kingston asked me if I knew the Premiers of New South Wales, Victoria and Queensland well. I told him I knew George Reid (New South Wales) very well, but I knew nothing much about the Premiers of Victoria or Queensland personally. “Well,” he said, “see George Reid at once, tell him what you want and the reason why, and let me know what he says about it.” I saw George Reid during the afternoon, explained the situation to him, and asked him for his support. He informed me that he had already been approached on behalf of another officer by some of his supporters, but had not given a definite answer, and he felt that he could not very well support me, who was in no way connected with New South Wales. “You see,” he added, “there are six colonies concerned. Now, have you got three Premiers to support you?” I said “Yes.” (My three friends at lunch.) “Well, then,” he went on, “if I remain neutral and decline to vote you will have three votes to two in your favour, and thus carry the day, even if the other two vote against you.” With a hearty shake of his hand and grateful feelings I left him. In the evening I reported to Kingston the result of my interview with George Reid. I felt I had succeeded as regarded the inspectorship of stores. But what about retaining my appointment as Commandant of South Australia while I was away? I had just returned after an absence of six months. Was it likely that the important position of Commandant was to continue to be filled by a locum tenens for a further period of one whole year? Kingston did not keep me long in suspense. “Well done, Reid!” he said. “That settles your going. I will see that you do not lose your appointment of Commandant as long as I am Premier. Get straight back to Adelaide and say absolutely nothing to anyone. Act as if you were going to stay, but be ready to get on a steamer homeward bound as soon as you hear from me. Good-bye and good luck.” So we parted, and I found my way back to Adelaide by the first coastal boat.

The day after my arrival there the mail steamer Victoria was due to leave, homeward bound, at midnight. In the afternoon of that day I got an official letter from the office of the South Australian Premier notifying me that I had been appointed Military Adviser and Inspector of Warlike Stores for the Australian Colonies, Queensland being the only objector. You can imagine the surprise my departure caused, but I was away in the ss. Victoria, well into the Australian Bight, making westwards, when the news of my new appointment appeared in next day’s morning papers. This was now my sixth voyage to and from Australia, and was as pleasant as its predecessors.