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Jackson’s Track Revisited: History, Remembrance and Reconciliation

Chapter 4

The Story of the League

Carolyn Landon

In this chapter, which explores the Victorian Aborigines Advancement League, the facts in the record begin to diverge from Daryl Tonkin’s memory. What are the implications of the differences that emerge from his memoir? What does this say about memory versus the record? Is there really a conflict or does one complement the other? What was the League and why is it that evangelistic Christians made up most of the membership of the local branch? The historian finds, by exploring both memory and the record, that the fabric of story deepens and the idea of truth becomes complex and fluid. Point of view, context, narrative structures, subtexts, telling the past for the present, experience and remembrance, attitudes and assumptions all come into play.

I now know something about the Aborigines Welfare Board, its policies and underlying prejudices, but I still do not know how it became active in the local area when the existence of an Aboriginal presence here seemed to be officially unrecognised. There is very little about Board activities, after those initial reports on the members, in the local papers. There is, on the other hand, a great deal about the activities of the Neerim Branch of the Victorian Aborigines Advancement League. What was the League? How did it come into existence? What did it stand for? And why is it that mostly evangelistic Christians made up the membership in the local branch?

Three weeks after Charles Mclean tabled his report, the Victorian Aborigines Advancement League was formed. It arose out of a public meeting called by the Save the Aborigines Committee on 5 February, 1957.1 The Committee had been formed expressly to come to the aid of the Warburton Ranges Aborigines, who were victims of the joint British-Australian rocket range project begun ten years earlier, and who were now living in appalling conditions. The Committee called the public meeting in direct response to films a Ministerial Study Group had made about their visit to the Warburton Ranges. Doug Nicholls had been a member of the study group and was now showing the public films of diseased, malnourished, and desperate Aboriginal people who had been neglected and left destitute. At the meeting were ‘energetic, influential and dedicated people’, Doris Blackburn, Gordon Bryant, Stan Davey and Doug Nicholls among them.2 These experienced campaigners must have discussed the implications of McLean’s report3 at the Save the Aborigines meeting. According to the official history of the Victorian Aborigines Advancement League – Victims or victors?, published in 1985 – they agreed then that the threat of the McLean Report’s assimilation policies becoming law heightened the need for a broad-based umbrella organisation that could deal with Aboriginal needs on many fronts. In due time the League was created, with far-reaching objectives that reflected past campaigns for Aboriginal rights and also confronted present threats. Their objectives were: achieve citizenship rights for Aborigines throughout the Commonwealth, to work towards the integration of Aboriginal people with the rest of the community while fully recognising the unique contribution they were able to make, to attempt to co-ordinate the different Aboriginal welfare organisations operating in Victoria, and to establish a general policy of advancement for Aboriginal people.4

Other objectives were: equal pay for equal work, free and compulsory education for ‘detribalised’ Aborigines, and absolute retention of all remaining reserves under Aboriginal communal ownership. The League worked quietly at first, establishing a hostel for Aboriginal girls who came to the city to work. But it came to national attention when it launched a campaign to establish a defence fund for Aborigines that was used to fight for Albert Namatjira, the painter who was arrested and thrown in jail for supplying alcohol to his kin. Widespread support for the League grew and branches began to spring up everywhere.

It was about this time that the League started up in the Drouin/Neerim South area. Mr B. T. (Bert) Clarke was the school master or head teacher at Neerim East Primary School, which is now situated on good roads fifteen minutes drive north of Warragul and fifteen minutes drive west of Jackson’s Track. Back then, on unmade roads, the distances must have seemed daunting. He was also a lay preacher in the Methodist Church and a concerned citizen whose interest focused particularly on the plight of Aboriginal people. He must have known about the camp at the Track, and he must have known Pastor Doug held monthly services there if the weather was fine. I cannot work out whether he knew Nicholls first because of his connection with the Church, and through him found out about the existence of the large camp of Aboriginal people, or whether it was the other way around. Whichever, those who remember Bert Clarke reckon he had a life-long passion for Aboriginal issues and that he was a very good preacher.

It was Clarke who arranged for Pastor Doug to come to the RSL Hall in Warragul to show the Warburton Ranges film and ‘speak of the plight of the Australian aborigines’, as it was reported in The Warragul Gazette on 10 October 1957. Nicholls also screened another film about Albert Namatjira, whom he called ‘a great Australian and typical of a great race’. He went on to say, according to the précis of his speech in the article, that:

Australian natives were not a primitive people but a people living in primitive conditions. They were the aristocrats who were entitled to a better deal than they were receiving from the white people.

... The aborigines over the centuries had solved their economic and social problems, while those problems for the white race contained the germs for people’s destruction.

The white race could not force its so-called civilisation on the aborigines who had no desire to be assimilated. They were a virile race pauperised by the dole system. If given the opportunity they could ‘fly high’ but they had been denied their rights by being kept a race apart.5

As I look at this article I am acutely aware how my friendship with Pauline keeps intruding into my reading; her point of view makes me change my position, my social and psychological context, if you will, and deconstruct the language. I know she doesn’t see herself as a race of people, as an Aborigine, the way Nicholls is describing her. She sees herself as the member of a family, a Kurnai woman, more particularly a Brabralung woman, who lives on particular country. In his attempt to get the non-Aboriginal people in his audience to pay attention to him, Pastor Doug uses colonial metaphors and homogenises the people he is speaking about into one type of person, one caste. Pauline would say Namatjira is typical of no one but himself, and owes loyalty only to his family and his country. Nicholls talks here in terms of race: great race, white race, virile race, race apart. Nicholls himself is playing the role of race representative, and he is pushing a line of race pride that the Aboriginal rights activists of the time adhered to. But from my modern viewpoint I can see he is undermining himself and his cause in the eyes of Pauline. No wonder Nicholls was mistrusted – as I find out later – amongst the Aboriginal people at the Track and no wonder a certain kind of people responded to his call.

Not long before this large meeting in the RSL Hall, Bert Clarke had asked Doug Nicholls to preach at the Methodist Church in Neerim South. After his sermon Clarke called for formation of the Neerim Branch of the League, and a small group of people must have come together to form an executive. After the large meeting at the RSL Hall, there was a surge of membership and for a while the Neerim Branch had as many as fifty members who were active in town and on the Track, but numbers soon reduced to a core group of workers. As I read more and more articles in the local papers about League activities, the names begin to condense and certain people begin to stand out. They are the names on the list Janet Cowden first showed me in her father’s papers; they are the names I first became acquainted with in Daryl’s memoir as the do-gooders; they all identify first as Christians, second as citizens. They are: Mr Alwyn Jensen, Mr and Mrs W. H. Buchanan, Mr Hector Cowden, and Mr and Mrs Schouller.


Pastor Doug Nicholls, and Roy Rose with guitar

Photo courtesy of the Mullett family

The local newspapers in the Historical Society are sprinkled with articles about League activities: they held a singalong one Wednesday afternoon in 1958 where ‘little aborigine children sang religious choruses to members of the Warragul Branch of the Women’s Christian Temperance Union in the Methodist Hall’; they more than once showed the tragic Warburton Ranges film to different groups, thus promoting the idea that Aborigines were a group of wretched people, engendering guilt amongst middle class whites and appealing to the missionary zeal of others; they disseminated educational material to various bodies in the district; they arranged for Donald Thomson to speak about his expedition to find the remote desert Bindibu Tribe, a journey ‘six thousand miles [sic] from Alice Springs’. For an audience of young farmers, Rotary, and Apex members, Thomson compared the ‘happy, carefree and robust’ tribal people with those wretched westernised Victorian Aborigines who, in his opinion at that time, had lost their culture and could no longer be called tribal. He entreated the audience to ‘share with me the feeling that they are our responsibility and that we must help them to adapt themselves to the changed way of life we have imposed on them’.6

Here the League seems to be condoning, through their guest speaker, patriarchal and assimilationist attitudes. This must have been done unconsciously since the League was categorical in its opposition to assimilation and the Board’s policy based on it. Stan Davey, one of the founders of the League, who would go on to become secretary of the Federal Council for Aboriginal Advancement, made it clear that the assimilation policy of the Board was an abomination. He wrote:

There are strong and real objections to an assimilation policy which assumes one of the races involved in the process has nothing to contribute to the national character and whose only hope is to ‘get lost’ in the dominant community. At no stage has the Australian Aborigine had the opportunity to voice his opinion as to the policy he would like to see. He has been told where his best interests lie and any claim to the right to maintain his identity, his culture, his possession of tribal lands or to participate in decisions as to his future relationships with other Australians have been completely denied.7

If Stan Davey, then the secretary of the Victorian Aborigines Advancement League, can write with such clarity about the position of Aboriginal people and the policies they have to deal with, why does the Neerim South Branch of the League honour speakers who refer to Aborigines as wretched, unfortunate, downtrodden, demoralised people whose ‘lot must be improved’?8 Underlying this language is the all-pervasive assumption of White superiority. Even Thomson uses it. As I look at many of the articles before me, I see that everyone speaks of Aborigines in this way. It is the language of the times. With the exception of Davey, who is able to find language that gives them the dignity they deserve, it seems most people can find no other way to articulate their concern about the plight of Aborigines. I shake my head, just as I know Pauline would. She has seen it all before, this strange and unconscious hypocrisy.

Except for the singing, which on first reading seems rather benign, none of these activities seemed to encroach upon the people at the Track. But a headline in the 23 September 1958 edition of the Gazette catches my eye: ‘Aborigines to be Kept Out?’ The article reports that Mr and Mrs W. H. Buchanan have offered the League a building block in Wood Street Drouin for a ‘nominal sum’ and ‘a petition objecting that the presence of aboriginals in the residential area of Drouin would lower land values’ has been circulated.9 The Buchanans are named in Daryl’s memoir. He says of them that they were connected with the church, although which church he had no clue nor did he care. He recalls that Mrs Buchanan came out to ‘work her way into [the] lives’ of the Track people by selling them cheap clothing she solicited through the local Radio Market, cleaned up and mended at her house before she brought them out. According to Daryl she, along with the other ‘bible-bashers’, would go ‘from camp to camp talking about Jesus and Christian values... Always on the backs of the blackfellas trying to get them to improve their ways.’10 That Daryl didn’t like the Buchanans was obvious, and here they are in this article trying to organise housing for Aboriginal people. The article in The Gazette calls the Buchanans ‘hard workers for the betterment of living conditions of Aborigines in the West Gippsland area’. I am suspicious. I know what will happen, that it will end in disaster, just as Daryl said; and here it is, the beginning of the dispossession, starting with the unconscious racism of well-meaning people – church people who have aligned themselves with the League.

And there is more. At the end of the same article, I see two sentences that catch me off guard: ‘The League Branch is mainly responsible for the settlement of two aboriginal families west of Drouin, opposite the Drouin Racecourse. The Hood family has been living there for some time and, yesterday, the Rose family was moved from Jackson’s Track at Jindivick to their new homes there.’ I know the story, yet it stuns me to see it played out in these old papers. It is almost as if I have been hoping none of it were true.

I linger over those sentences for a long time. They state that Hoods and Roses were moved in 1958. This is almost four years before Daryl remembered the removal to have happened. Why was he so far out in his dates? What does this say about memory versus the Record? Of course, when he told his story to me, the old man had been remembering things he had not spoken about for more than forty years. Although he must have retold the stories to himself over and over, trying to make sense of them over those years, it is clear he had re-shaped the stories to give them meaning in the present context of his life, which, when I met him, was pretty much one of loneliness and grief over lost happiness. Over the years he had altered the order of events.

Chronology in memory is always difficult. Memory compresses time. As he told me his story, Daryl was trying to work out when the removal had happened by connecting it with other events such as his brother’s death, the sealing and straightening of the Track and the death of Roy Rose. He got it wrong largely because memory focuses on incidents in order of significance, thereby driving ‘the oral recollection towards the figurative rather than the specific, to tropes rather than to facts’.11 In Daryl’s mind Stewart Hood, whose daughter, Euphie, was Daryl’s wife, and who was responsible for the large extended family living at the Track – Daryl’s family – was the Original Aboriginal Man. The removal of Stewart from the Track was a traumatic event for Daryl. It seems that he condensed several events into one, connecting Stewart’s removal with another, later, mass removal associated with the very dramatic event of bulldozing the bark huts. This bullodozing symbolised for Daryl the dissolution of his family.

Neither Daryl nor I knew about the existence of the League when he was doing his remembering, and we never dreamed that the removal would have been publicised in the local papers. I am sure that if I had tried to dig deeper into the history of the event when I was working on Daryl’s memoir, it would have done no good: had I attempted to verify every word of his story as he was telling it, the project would have come to a halt immediately. Daryl was on a knife edge speaking to me, always on the verge of pulling out of the whole process. Although I intuited what courage was involved in the telling of his story, I was pretty much in the dark when it came to understanding why he was so covert and almost frightened to tell it. And so I trod very lightly, doing my utmost to listen well and understand the meaning of the old man’s words, the stuff that was coming out of his heart, rather than its accuracy in terms of the Record and of History.

In his book Anzac memories, Alastair Thomson writes of a similar experience he had when speaking with an old digger about his memories of being a soldier in Gallipoli during the Great War. He noticed that over time his subject became more articulate about what he remembered; early in the interview process, which lasted several years, his subject had been unable to express his memories about being fearful, but much later he was able to talk fluently about his fears. Thomson realised that over time the public narrative about war and heroism in general had changed such that ‘what is possible to remember and articulate changes over time, and this can be attributed to shifts in personal identity and public attitudes’.12 So with Daryl Tonkin. When I met him he thought he was a villain and a fool who had no reason or right to tell his story. Pauline managed to convince him that times had changed, that people were willing to listen to his tale and take it seriously. While I tended to dismiss his labelling himself a villain and a fool as a kind of false modesty, I understood that fears of racist rejection, along with fears of the law and ‘the welfare’, had rendered him and his Aboriginal family silent. The new genuine interest in, and hunger for, knowledge about Aborignes and Aboriginal history, empowered him to speak aloud those things that he had always thought should lie buried. As he and I worked together to find words with which to express his story, his confidence grew and he became more articulate. Nevertheless, to the very end he kept me from his family, especially, to my regret, from his beloved Euphie. He must have felt, deep in his heart, that telling his story to a stranger was a folly from which she needed to be protected.

Now here I am in the Historical Society, sitting amongst pages and pages of disintegrating yellow papers, wondering about what I have just discovered and how I feel about it. I decide that worrying about the chronology may be no more than a distraction in terms of understanding what happened and why; the truth is still there in both versions of the story. The Rose family ‘was moved’ and the League was ‘mainly responsible for the settlement of two aboriginal families’. Just as Daryl said:

A group of Christians [who] were white people didn’t understand blackfellows [sic] ways and bush living. They dogged the blacks for years trying to change their ways and give up the bush... The blacks were told to get on the trucks and were taken to the block of land near Drouin... The Christians had wrecked the blackfellows [sic] lifes [sic]...13

Daryl’s story is the same as the Record, even if there is a discrepancy in dates, but his version gives it a narrative shape that includes subtext from the heart. Perhaps more importantly, it takes a completely different point of view from the Record. The Record tells the official view, the view of the perpetrators; Daryl’s memoir tells the view of the victim. It tells the side of the story that usually remains untold and off the record. I must remember that and measure both views against the other.

I finally decide, after trying to think all this through, that all I can feel is the cold in this old dark reading room in the Historical Society. I am surrounded by photos on the walls that remember and celebrate men whose voices, attitudes and assumptions fill the documents in the Archive, images that represent progress on the frontier: photos of the great mountain ash forests that once surrounded this little town but were so proudly cleared away to make room for dairy cows and their pasture; photos of moustachioed men in shirt sleeves outside the first pub; more of men in coats and waistcoats with watch chains and cravats standing on their stovepipe legs in thick woollen pants, arms crossed over their chests. Where are the voices of the Stewart Hoods and the Pauline Mulletts? Why aren’t their pictures here on these walls? It all makes me angry.


White and moustachioed: important White men’s portraits hang on the walls at the Historical Society

Photo by the author

I close the grey cardboard-bound folio of papers for the year 1958 and take it back to its home in a large walk-in safe in one of the darker rooms in the building. On the shelves inside this vault papers dating back far into the nineteenth century are stacked higgledy-piggledy as high as the ceiling. To enter I must use a long, old key, turning it in the lock just so before a brass handle clicks and the heavy safe door swings open, revealing the stacks inside. I have fossicked through these stacks looking for traces, clues, artefacts that prove the dead were once living. The papers I have perused include The Guardian, which first reported to the people of Gippsland the doings of Angus McMillan, parliamentarian and protector of Aborigines, but neglected to mention that in his youth he was an organiser of the Highland Brigade. The Highland Brigade may have been responsible for a massacre of the Brataualong, Pauline’s direct ancestors, at Warrigal creek in 1843. ‘Everyone in Gippsland knew of the Massacre’,14 according to historian Don Watson who grew up in Gippsland. No, I think, not all the lives of the dead are in these papers.


The Archive’s collection of newspapers

Photo by Larry Hills

I feel too cold and sad to go on looking, but as I place the folio back on the stack and prepare to lock the safe door, I realise I can also feel Pauline watching me. She is giving me no clues about what to think or feel; she simply watches. She is waiting for me to figure it out. She knows there is more to the story than I see, that there is more to her father’s fear than I understand. I can’t tell if her expression is dark, frowning with frustration at my obtuseness or if there is a twinkle in her eye as she watches me get closer, closer, but not quite there yet. I have seen that expression many times when her eyes are laughing and her lips are ready to part into a broad smile as I finally see the light and get what she has been trying to tell me. I feel that if I turn the key in the lock and walk away, I might never see the light. I cannot risk having that lively expression of Pauline’s close down and go blank. It might break my heart.

Instead of closing the door, I put the key in my pocket and go back to take another volume of the Gazette from the stack, and then another, until I find it all. In June 1959, it is reported that four families have been moved to houses in the district, but it does not say where. It does say that ‘there are fifteen children in the four families and the League is keen to see them have opportunities for schooling as other children have’.15 I wonder if it is the Austins that are being referred to. I take note of the comment about opportunities for schooling. It doesn’t square with what I know: according to Daryl, the kids at the Track, Austins’ kids in particular, attended Labortouche Primary and had a wonderful teacher. I also wonder what is meant by ‘as other children’. I know this is a direct quote from Alwyn Jensen, the most energetic of the League members. Is it an assumption that Aboriginal children want to be like other children? Is it an assimilationist comment? Perhaps it is just a throw-away line that comes out of the unconscious mind of a man who assumes his way is superior to that of the wretched Aborigines he feels compassion for.


Children at Jackson’s Track

Reproduced with permission also from Regina Rose

I come across a report, dated August 1959, about the activities of the League. It may have been written by the secretary of the Neerim Branch of the League, Mr W. A. Knowles, or by the the president, Mr A. Jensen. It reads ‘All known aborigines in the Warragul-Drouin area were housed in decent dwellings and provided with some furniture’.16 This surprises me. Daryl remembered that there were only two small shacks where Hoods and Roses moved to. According to him, the rest of the housing, if that’s what it could be called, was made up of tents and maybe a run-down caravan. And what did ‘known aborigines’ mean? Was it assumed that there were many more who were unknown?

In January 1960 Mr Jensen writes an angry letter to the editor registering ‘the strongest protest against the unreasonable attitude shown by Cr Stoll [of the Buln Buln Shire Council]’.17 Stoll had complained long and loud in a Council meeting about the risk that drunken ‘aborigines’ would make a public nuisance of themselves if they were to move into town. Jensen calls Mr Stoll ignorant, dishonest, prejudiced. He calls the ‘dark folk’ decent.

In August 1960 there is a report about a new £3000 home being built for Mrs Violet Harrison, an Aboriginal woman with nine children. The State CWA donated £1500 from their Thanksgiving Fund and the Aborigines Welfare Board the rest. The entire project was originated by Mrs Buchanan from the League.18 So, I think, the Board and the League were working together in the West Gippsland area. How could that be when the League was begun as a guard against the activities of the Board?

I cannot find the answer in these old newspapers. I have reached the end of any references to moving people into houses. There is plenty of activity concerning arrangements at the houses and the helping hands lent by League members to build a kitchen, put on the water, start a garden. There is report of holding ‘fellowship meetings’ for the people at the so called ‘settlement’ once a week, and educational meetings for the general community on a regular basis. At one point, missionaries from the Aborigines Island Mission of Australia held services at the home of Mrs Hood at the ‘settlement’. The Presbyterian Men’s Brotherhood decides to ‘adopt’ an Aborigine. But there is nothing more about housing. I will have to go to the National Archives to find out more about the Board and its connection to the League in our area.

As I put the last folio of papers back in the stacks, slowly close the heavy door and turn the key, I think to myself that I know more about the details of Daryl’s story than he does now. He was not aware of the existence of the League, and most likely still isn’t. He knew Doug Nicholls very well, even staying at his house next to the footy grounds in Fitzroy a number of times, and he consented to let him to hold services at the Track whenever the weather was fine. Of course Daryl knew that Nicholls was a pastor, after all he was called Pastor Doug at the Track. But he did not know that Nicholls was Field Officer for the League and that the other Christians who Daryl thought were plaguing the blackfellas were also members of a branch of the League and well-known to Nicholls. If he had known about the group fighting for Aboriginal rights, would he have joined them or would he have stood up against them? If he had known who they were, is it possible he may have understood why Stewart Hood was not afraid of them and had even argued that he thought they were good people with good ideas?19

The sad irony is that the Aborigines Welfare Board on the one hand and the Aborigines’ Advancement League on the other emerged at almost exactly the same time that Jackson’s Track, which for years had been no more than a boggy winding one-lane track with ‘pot holes big enough to bury a cow in’,20 was straightened and sealed by the Shire Council. The new road made its way through the Aboriginal camps that had existed, peacefully hidden there, for seventeen years. Also, in 1957 Daryl Tonkin’s brother Harry died, and his sister Mavis made an attempt to wrest the timber mill and the land from Daryl as an expression of her disapproval of his relationship with Euphemia Hood Mullett and the rest of the Aboriginal people camped at Jackson’s Track. Mavis did her utmost to undermine the business and caused work to come to a temporary standstill before Daryl struggled back to his feet. These events left the families at the Track vulnerable to the machinations and influence of the Board, the League, and as it turned out, religious zealotry. Daryl Tonkin was only partially aware of this convergence of events.

It’s late. As I slowly back out of the Historical Society locking one door after another, all with different oddly shaped keys, possibly the same keys handled by the Shire Officers who walked these corridors in the 1890s, I think of Pauline. She is not just watching me here; she is guiding me. Right now she is patiently waiting to see if I will finally get to the place she wants me to be. Maybe she thinks all this searching is preliminary, a prerequisite to real knowledge. I know she does not yet trust the importance of what I am finding. Is it taking me towards the truth, or at least towards some sort of resolution?


1     Anonymous (1985, p. 52).

2     Anonymous (1985, p. 52).

3     McLean, Charles. Report Upon the Operation of the Aborigines Act 1928 and the Regulations and Order made Thereunder, Melbourne, 1957, B408.

4     Anonymous (1985, p. 53).

5     Warragul Gazette, ‘Plea for Better Deal for Aborigines’, 10 October 1957, p. 4.

6     Warragul Gazette, ‘Warragul Meets Leader of expedition to Binidbu Tribe’, 15 July 1958, p. 12; and ‘Ashamed of our treatment of aborigines’ 22 July 1958, p. 18.

7     Stan Davey (1963).

8     Warragul Gazette, 10 October 1957, p. 4; and ‘Aborigines Sing at Warragul Meeting’ 26 August 1958, p. 19.

9     Warragul Gazette, ‘Aborigines to be kept out?’ 23 September 1958, p. 1.

10    Landon and Tonkin (1999, p. 252).

11    John Murphy (1986, pp. 164–165).

12    Alastair Thomson (1994, p. 237).

13    Landon and Tonkin (1999).

14    Don Watson (1984, p. 167).

15    Warragul Gazette, ‘Housing for Aborigines,’ 9 June 1959, p. 11.

16    Warragul Gazette, ‘District League has Done Much to Advance Welfare for Aborigines,’ 4 August 1959, p. 19.

17    Warragul Gazette, ‘This is what our Reader’s Think: League’s Protest,’ 12 January 1960, p. 7.

18    Warragul Gazette, ‘New Home for Aborigines,’ 2 Aug 1960, p. 1.

19    Landon and Tonkin (1999, p. 251).

20    Landon and Tonkin (1999, p. 7).


Anonymous. 1985. Victims or victors? The story of the Victorian Aborigines Advancement League. Melbourne: Hyland House Publishing.

Davey, Stan. 1963. ‘Genesis or genocide? The Aboriginal assimilation policy’. Provocative pamphlets 101 (July 1963). Available from:

Landon, Carolyn; Tonkin, Daryl. 1999. Jackson’s Track: Memoir of a Dreamtime place. Melbourne: Penguin.

Murphy, John. 1986. ‘The voice of memory: History, autobiography and oral memory’. Historical studies 22 (87): 157–175.

Thomson, Alastair. 1994. Anzac memories: Memory and wartime bereavement in Australia. Melbourne: Melbourne University Press.

Watson, Don. 1984. Caledonia Australis: Scottish highlanders on the frontier of Australia. Sydney: Collins.

Cite this chapter as: Landon, Carolyn. 2006. ‘The story of the League’. In Jackson’s Track revisited: History, remembrance and reconciliation. Melbourne: Monash University ePress. pp. 4.1–4.14.

Jackson’s Track Revisited: History, Remembrance and Reconciliation

   by Carolyn Landon