by David Ruffle
To say I was not looking forward to the voyage would be a miracle of understatement. I had no experience whatsoever of life on the ocean and all I knew was that the voyage would be long, arduous, uncomfortable and possibly dangerous. As I said before, my uncle had paid for my passage, but only as a second-class passenger. I should not complain for the lot of the third-class passengers was to spend upwards of two months, depending on weather conditions, in exceedingly cramped accommodation where disease could break out at any time.
During the voyage, there were nineteen burials at sea, many of them children who had succumbed to illnesses brought on by a general lack of hygiene through having so many people thrown together, particularly in the steerage. Due to the cramped and overcrowded conditions in steerage, people could not really take baths and made do with a clean-up with a damp cloth under a blanket. Most people did not have the room to change their clothing and often wore the same garments or clothing for the entire voyage. Facilities for washing clothes were very restricted. The officers on board did their best, God knows they did; the areas below deck were thoroughly cleaned every few days by sailors and many of the women in steerage. Bedding which was usually made of straw, attracted fleas and cockroaches. People brought up their bedding in fine weather to shake it out and air it. However, in storms and bad weather, the bedding was often soaked through and this led to outbreaks of influenza and pneumonia. In the over-crowded conditions in steerage, epidemics were common. Most victims were babies and young children, who often died of complications and lack of medical care. Infected passengers often came on board, having passed undetected through pre-boarding medical checks. Tuberculosis was understandably one of the most dangerous diseases. For the burial, the body was sewn into a piece of canvas or placed in a rough coffin, often hastily knocked up by the ship’s carpenter, and weighed down with pig iron or lead to help it sink. A plank had been placed on deck, one end over the ship’s side, and upon this plank the sailors placed the body, covering it with an ensign. The sailors gently lifted the ensign and running out the plank and lifting up one end, the body dropped over the side into the water. It was one of the saddest sights I had ever encountered and Doctor Tawton took each death to heart in spite of doing all he possibly could to prolong their lives.
If I thought my time on board as his assistant would be plain sailing, excuse the pun, then I was rudely disabused of that notion in no time at all. By far the chief illness, temporary though it may have been and relatively harmless, was sea-sickness. As we suffered with it ourselves, we could readily sympathise with those similarly afflicted especially as sympathy was all we could offer in most cases. All that was still in the future as I prepared to take my place on the RMS Hellespont on a dull, overcast morning in Liverpool. She was a noble-looking ship, some four-hundred feet in length and I did have a momentary attack of panic at the thought of being confined on board this vessel for weeks and weeks, but I duly took my place and was even rather pleased with my cabin which was certainly comfortable, well-equipped if a little small. I sought out the medical quarters where Doctor Tawton was already laying out his equipment. We had met briefly at St Paul’s during apposition[7].
He greeted me with ‘Ah, Watson, my loblolly boy,’ and then grinned at my mystified expression. The name itself comes from the serving of loblolly, a thick porridge, sometimes enhanced with chunks of meat or vegetables to sick or injured crewmembers to hasten their recovery. Loblolly, in turn, probably came from the fusion of lob, a Yorkshire word meaning to boil or bubble and lolly, an archaic English word for a stew or soup. The loblolly boy’s duties included serving food to the sick, but also undertaking any medical tasks that the surgeon was too to perform. These included restraining patients during surgery, obtaining and cleaning surgical instruments, disposing of amputated limbs, and emptying and cleaning toilet utensils. The loblolly boy also often managed stocks of herbs, medicines and medical supplies.
As valuable as it may have proved to be for my medical education I managed to complete the voyage without restraining patients or disposing of amputated limbs. Besides, Tawton had his own official assistant, a Mr. Ransom, known as the sick berth attendant. Even though the term was already dated, I was known as the ‘loblolly boy’ for the rest of my time on board.[8] As I had in effect volunteered my services I was under no obligation to report to the medical quarters every day, but ever the conscientious young man, I presented myself to Tawton most days and even then I was not required for more than a few hours at a time. It was a comfortable enough voyage, but only as long as it took for the first storm to arrive. The waves grew so large that the vessel was dwarfed, riding up and down the mighty swelling sea like a child’s toy. Inside the ship there was no staying still unless the person was anchored in place, for the floor was whatever surface gravity flung the sailors and passengers upon. In that state they’d have prayed to Poseidon[9] himself if they thought it would do any good.
There was no mercy in that howling wind, no grace in the waves, only wrath and tempest. The cacophony of sound was overwhelming, not just of nature, but of furniture freed by the storm to roll around and crash into anything that stood in its way. A few hours later, this expression of nature at its wildest was just a memory. The sunshine bathed a becalmed ocean, shone off the rippling water, its golden light warped in the twisted, but gentle waves. No description can truly capture its mysterious majesty, yet only a few words can express its beauty. Perhaps only then I appreciated and respected the ocean we steamed across. As violent as that first storm was, it bore no comparison to those that came later especially as we neared the Cape of Good Hope[10].
The intensity of the tempests was terrifying even to experienced sailors who nevertheless kept to their routines admirably. My recourse was often just to shut myself up in my cabin, anchor myself down on my bunk and wait for the winds to abate. There were few young men on board among the passengers and even fewer young women. A second-class passenger is somehow neither fish nor fowl, feeling unable to socialise with those above or below. I made nodding acquaintances with various people when perambulating the deck in between medical duties and sitting out the frequent storms.
One young woman in particular intrigued me, a red-haired beauty whose hair remained vibrant day after day. Even keeping my hair clean presented a challenge to me faced as it was with the daily assault from the wind, the sun when it chose to shine and sea salt which penetrated everything. My hair remained defiantly flat and lacklustre and must have been unappealing to any prospective admirer.
Being inexperienced as a suitor it took many days before I could pluck up the courage attempt a conversation with her aside from the mumbled greetings we already exchanged as we passed each other on the deck, at least when the days were sufficiently calm to enable such perambulations to take place. This inexperience of mine you will readily understand when I tell you that I spent hours in front of my mirror rehearsing my opening gambits of which there were many, all of them to remain unused for she literally fell at my feet one day when she tripped over a carelessly placed coil of rope. Thus, my opening gambits were reduced at once to an examination of her ankle and soothing comments and questions as to where it hurt!
Her name was Adeline Potter and she was travelling to Australia to be re-united with her father who had gone out to the goldfields of the country to seek his fortune as so many had before him. He was one of the fortunate ones and had made a fortune, albeit a small one as Adeline explained to me. With his gains, he bought a plot of land in a settlement named Moe[11], some eighty miles east of Melbourne. On this land, he had built a hotel which Adeline was going to assist in the running of. Her father, Andrew Potter, was of the belief that Moe was going to turn very quickly from a small settlement to a city in no time at all and he was determined to be in at the start of this growth.
Adeline’s mother had parted from Andrew when Adeline was but six years old which is when Andrew decided to sail to the other side of the wo
rld. There had been sporadic communication between daughter and father while he had been working the goldfields in search of the find he was always confident would come along. Once he had come into money he implored Adeline to come out to join him. She had steadfastly refused, her loyalties clearly resided with her mother.
However, her mother had recently died from consumption and with no kith or kin in England, she had made the decision to throw in her lot with her father and build a new life and rebuild her relationship with him. We had in common, therefore, the sense of starting a new life on a faraway continent although at that time I had not the notion of my domicile being permanent as hers would likely prove to be. We came to know each other very well as the voyage progressed and our daily walks were moments of great joy for me. I, had of course had to keep my mind focused on my duties in the sick bay, but we spent as much time together as was humanly possible. I do not as a rule agree with the modern trend, deplorable in my view, that memoirs have to include descriptions of intimacy that are better left unsaid, so I will not venture into the details of our growing romance.
Up until that point dear Lily was the only girl I had kissed and I was therefore quite a bashful suitor, but earnest, oh most definitely earnest. We made promises to each other that I hoped against hope would be binding, so smitten was I. There is a disturbing modern trend for people in the public eye to pen ‘warts and all’ memoirs. It is not a trend I am in favour of as I have just mentioned therefore you will look in vain for the level of intimacy I enjoyed with Adeline, suffice to say we considered ourselves betrothed even if it was only the two of us who were aware of it. Our time together was nearly at and end for as I went up on top the deck one morning I could see Williamstown, its buildings shimmering in the sun which had burst through the clouds as if in a greeting from the New World to us weary travellers. And there was no doubt, we were all very weary indeed.
From our vantage point on the deck Adeline spotted her father who was busily scanning the expectant faces nearby without recognising his daughter until she waved at him. His smile at that point was in direct contrast to how I was feeling. After weeks of Adeline’s most delightful company, I was now not sure of when I would see her again, nor how her father would react to his daughter’s admirer.
Before I took my leave of the ship and stepped ashore on to Australian soil, I had first to take my leave of Henry Tawton and Mr. Ransom. I had learned a great deal from both men during the voyage and their kindness and patience with me was a lesson in how to treat people that I have never forgotten and it was something I always tried to apply in my own career. Adeline’s father was naturally inquisitive about the youth who accompanied his daughter down onto the quay. I recounted the incident of Adeline’s ankle injury, possibly overplaying my medical role! I don’t know how far I went in impressing the man, but he offered to buy me a breakfast as he explained that the coach to Moe was not leaving for two hours. I had no idea about the times of the train I needed other than it would involve a circuitous journey on two trains, first to Geelong than a second from there to Ballarat itself. Uppermost in my thoughts was that I would be over one hundred and fifty miles from Adeline. I very nearly reconsidered my agenda and instead go to Moe, but arrangements had been made and one hundred and fifty miles was hardly an insurmountable distance or barrier to romance.
I remember that morning of arrival in Melbourne so clearly, I can almost feel the warmth of the sun. Andrew Potter led us through to the streets to a small establishment on Spencer Street which sold sixpenny breakfasts. It was obviously very popular as obtaining a table was extremely difficult, but eventually we found ourselves seated in a far corner. The scene is etched on my mind in spite of the passage of time and my failing faculties. ‘Breakfast, sir?’ said the Irish waitress, who had expertly negotiated the crowded tables. ‘Chops, steaks, sausages, fried fish, dry hash.’ ‘Stop,’ I cried, aghast at this list of luxuries, ‘I will have a cup of tea and some bread and butter.’ ‘What else, sir? There’s nice steak this morning.’ ‘How much is a steak?’ I asked, bent on economy for the sake of Andrew Potter’s purse in spite of the man smiling broadly at me. ‘Sixpence, sir.’ ‘And the tea, and bread and butter?’ ‘All sixpence.’ That I could obtain soup, meat, and pastry for the ridiculously small sum of sixpence was a revelation of inestimable value and incidentally it was not the last time that I was to feel like a fish out of water in that continent.
Adeline’s father talked of his plans for his hotel in Moe, The Digger’s Rest. He was confident that the rapid expansion that had already been seen, due in no small part to the gold rush, would be replicated in Moe and he was determined to be in on it and provide a future for Adeline. I felt a pang of distress for it was me who should be providing a future for her, for us. True, I had little to offer her in terms of security or prosperity, but naively I thought love would conquer all. It has often been my undoing.
After the last of the dishes had been cleared away I knew the time of farewell was on us. It was all very proper and formal, we shook hands while reiterating as best we could those promises we intended to keep to each other. Andrew Potter shook my hand and they walked away to catch the coach. At the end of the street before they turned the corner, Adeline turned and smiled, knowing I would still be watching. I was not to know it would be my last ever sight of her.
5 The only armed rebellion in Australian history.
6 Ballarat is arguably the most significant Victorian era gold rush boomtown in Australia.
7 A public disputation by scholars; a formal examination by question and answer; still applied to the ‘Speech day’ at St Paul’s School, London.
8 The name comes from the serving of loblolly - a thick porridge, sometimes enhanced with chunks of meat or vegetables - to sick or injured crewmembers to hasten their recovery.
9 The ancient Greek god of the sea, with the power to cause earthquakes, identified by the Romans with Neptune.
10 A rocky headland on the Atlantic coast of the Cape Peninsula, South Africa
11 A very small settlement then. Its name means ‘swamp land’.
Cylinder 4
The train to Geelong[12] was overcrowded, dangerously so in my opinion, but everyone on board took it in their stride so I assumed this was commonplace for the journey. The second half of the journey from Geelong to Ballarat was less crowded, and I was able to relax at last. The landscape between the two towns was quite unlike anything I had ever seen. One moment, desert, the next, dense woodland. It was an ever-changing kaleidoscope of colour. I marvelled at the ingenuity of the engineers who had forged their way through this country, the tracks remaining straight and true even though the undulations of the land and natural barriers would have created numerous difficulties.
My enthusiasm for this temporary new life of mine had been dimmed since meeting Adeline and the excitement I had once felt for coming to Ballarat was considerably subdued. Back in England, I had made contact with a doctor in the city who had agreed to having my occasional help and assistance in return for food and lodging. Doctor Joseph Josephs, a victim of his parents’ humour in his Christian name maybe, was a prominent member of the community of the newly proclaimed city. His brother, Henry was mayor of the borough at that time. I suspected my help would prove to be more than occasional and so it proved to be. Ballarat had the look of a much older city although it had not been in existence for all that long, something it shared in common with many other Australian towns and cities. It was not quite the Ballarat I had imagined.
Gold mining was slowing down considerably as was lead mining, and the city appeared to be in a depression. The changes in mining had resulted in a migration that had halted the population growth which had enjoyed a rapidity of growth just as at Melbourne. Nevertheless, there were many plans to rejuvenate the city and to enhance daily life for its residents. I was there for what I supposed would be a
n adventure, but on arrival in Ballarat, I was full of doubts as to what exactly I was doing. Why had I travelled the other side of the world on little more than a whim? A whim based on a book I had read as a child.
However, I could scarcely turn back and I duly made my way, bags in hand to the home and surgery of Doctor Josephs which was situated on... it was on... ah Sturt Street, that was it. A large house, which sat in the middle of a business district. The ground floor was where the surgery and waiting-room were situated, along with a kitchen which backed on to a small yard. The second floor was given over to four bedrooms and a large reception room. Joseph Josephs was a rather stern-looking man, with hair that looked as though it had a permanent gale blowing through it, so unruly was it. If his name offered me a degree of amusement, imagine my surprise upon being introduced to his wife, Josephine. I was less practiced at keeping a straight face in those days, but somehow, I managed it.
My room was comfortable enough with ample storage space, a single iron-framed bed and a desk. I had a notion at the time to keep a journal detailing my adventures, should there be any, during my time in Australia. I never did find the time to undertake such a task which is a great shame as a notebook of the kind would come in very handy right now. One of Joseph’s first actions was to thrust a book into my hand, written, as I recall, by a local journalist, which was a richly detailed history of Ballarat. That is another book which would come in handy right now. I protested that I was quite well up in the history of the area, but my protestations were swept aside and I acquiesced. ‘Read it cover to cover, mind’ he admonished. I thought for a brief moment that he was about to tell me how he would question me on it daily.
