The diets of the Scots and Irish differed slightly but significantly from those of the English, in that potatoes and oatmeal were considered staples. Potatoes, however, were not easy to keep, even in their ‘preserved’ form, which basically amounted to placing them in jars filled with earth or ash and storing them in the coolest place possible on the ship. With regard to the Scots and their diet, the Passengers Act ruled that three and a half pounds of oatmeal be provided to every passenger embarking from a Scottish or Irish port. Though leaving from England, Captain Boyle insisted that such provisions of oatmeal were provided for all his Gaelic passengers.
Apart from the food and provisions, the Ticonderoga also had to take on board utensils and galley supplies for around 800 people who would be dining in 126 ‘messes’, around the large wooden tables installed along the two covered decks adjacent to their bunks, and in fine weather, even on the open upper deck. In their hundreds, serving plates, bread baskets, butter dishes, water beakers and some more curiously listed items such as 246 ‘tin pots with hooks’ and 126 ‘potato nets’ were all included.
The list had been worked out meticulously, checked and inspected by Captain Patey who, to the relief of Mr and Mrs Smith, was pleased with what he saw. He needed to be meticulous. There would be no chances at replenishment of anything along the way. The Ticonderoga’s route, following the so-called Great Circle around the bottom of the world, would make not a single stop along the way. The next land her passengers would touch after departing the shores of Britain would be Australia. Anything that was not taken aboard at Birkenhead, the passengers and crew would have to do without.
In the late July heat, crew men had worked with the longshoremen on the wharf, assembling the mass of provisions and carefully arranging them like a gigantic three-dimensional jigsaw puzzle inside the gloomy hold and, using the ancient art of the stevedore, spreading the load so as not to upset the clipper’s delicate trim.
On the first day of the new month of August, the long process of embarkation began. No matter how long this moment had been contemplated, and despite the months—even years—of anguish, the agonising decision making, the advice taken, the information absorbed, the long procession of farewells and last-minute regrets, nothing could prepare the Ticonderoga’s passengers for the totally alien environment they were now to enter. As they prepared to take leave of the Birkenhead depot, harried staff shouted names from lists as anxious parents formed lines and wrangled their excited children. In small groups, divided into nationalities, then into their respective messes, the passengers were marshalled in a great shuffling line towards the waiting ship.
Queues stretched back from the wharf to the depot as families tried to keep themselves and their luggage together, snaking towards the great black wall of the Ticonderoga’s hull ‘like Noah and his Family going into the Ark’, as one departing passenger observed.4 Several brass bands had been hired for the occasion and stood on the wharf belting out favourites like ‘Home Sweet Home’, ‘The Girl I Left Behind Me’ and, of course, ‘Rule Britannia’.5
With deck space on board at a premium, each person had been issued with two canvas bags into which they were told to pack only the clothing they would need for the voyage; the remainder was to stay in their boxes and trunks, which the crew had already stowed into the holds. After a month at sea, one box clearly marked ‘wanted on the voyage’ would be brought up to the upper deck for another month’s clothing to be taken out and exchanged, with the dirty clothes being packed away. Almost nothing except food would be provided once on board, so every essential item, from children’s nappies to cooking utensils, had to be carried by the passengers and stowed in the lockers under the already less than spacious bunks.
The ship’s deck was alive with the crew, who seemed to crawl over every inch of her. Heads craned up to the top of the main and mizzen masts, where men could be observed high up in the spars and top masts checking and rechecking lines, shrouds and braces. Even tied up and beside the wharf, it seemed a dangerous place for anyone to be. What it must be like up there at sea and in rough weather was beyond imagining. Not that it appeared to concern them, as the crew’s singing—both their work songs and traditional tunes of departure—rang out jauntily over the bulwarks.
More names were checked off more lists as passengers emerged onto the rickety gangplank, which felt more than unsteady under their feet. Then, setting foot for the first time on the upper deck, the line snaked down one of the hatches, which opened like a dark, gaping maw. Helped by one or more of the Ticonderoga’s crew, it was at this moment that her passengers were introduced to the crowded and claustrophobic underworld that would be their home for the next three months.
Some gasped as they ducked their heads at the entrance to the main deck, adjusting their eyes to the sudden darkness. Some gagged at the already strange mixture of smells of cut timber, whitewash and hot tar, as well as a strange, earthy smell left from the thousands of cotton bales that had been crammed into her from her previous incarnation as a cargo vessel. Some felt instant claustrophobia clawing at their chests. Embarkation staff and members of the crew, harried and impatient, saw them as quickly as possible to their assigned bunks then left them to stow their possessions in the small lockers as they attended to the next passenger. Panic about the tiny space in which they were expected to live over the coming months was experienced by many. Others were directed to proceed even further into the ship, down yet another gaping gangway to the Ticonderoga’s lower deck, feeling as if they were descending into a mine. The same thought crossed each of their minds as they lowered themselves and their families down into the hold: how could we ever get out of here in a hurry?
Another hour or so of settling in, and 795 passengers plus several dozen crew, including officers, able and ordinary seamen, several cooks and carpenters,6 settled themselves into the spaces and crannies of the great ship. The noise of dozens of families and children and the shouted orders of the crew reverberated around the confined spaces in a cacophony of tongues and accents. The mood of the passengers varied, from the quiet anxiety of the mothers with children to the enthusiasm of the young, single men who—like young, single men everywhere—looked forward to what they saw as a great adventure on the way to wealth and good fortune in the far-off colonies. Already, they had begun to think of themselves as expert seamen.
Two men had already established themselves on board the Ticonderoga who were neither passengers nor crew, but who occupied a unique position somewhere between. It could be argued that theirs was one of the most important positions on the entire ship. It was upon the shoulders of these two men that the health and happiness of the passengers on the long voyage would rest. Already they had begun making the rounds of the decks, reacquainting themselves with passengers they had met during the medical inspections at the depot a day or two earlier. Together, they presented an unshakeable front of authority and good cheer as they patted the heads of some of the children, uttered reassuring words about the strength of the ship and the capable hands and experience of Captain Thomas Boyle and generally set a tone of calm. Of all the ship’s officers, it was these two men with whom, over the weeks to come, the Ticonderoga’s passengers would become most familiar—for better and for worse. Over time, their roles would evolve from offering comfort and advice, and attending to minor health concerns and daily grievances, to those of warriors in a life-or-death struggle. They were the Ticonderoga’s two official surgeons, duly appointed by the Colonial Land and Emigration Commission, the seasoned and respected Dr Joseph Charles Sanger, 48, and his assistant, a younger man with a broad and steady face, Dr James William Henry Veitch, 27.
Finally, early in the afternoon of Wednesday, 4 August 1852, the ship’s bell was struck to alert all those not travelling to depart the ship and groups of friends and well-wishers made their way towards the gangway, tears springing to their eyes, as well as those of the people about to depart. Then, as if announcing the arrival of an emperor, the bell tolled again to s
ignal that the Ticonderoga’s master, Thomas Boyle, was coming aboard.
The captain would usually leave the final preparations to his first mate while he attended to paperwork and final discussions with the owners and emigration officials on shore about the route to be taken, and also what to expect about Port Phillip and its approaches—particularly the entrance to Port Phillip Bay, well known as a particularly difficult stretch of water to navigate. To this effect, he would also receive his Notes to Mariners, officially prepared for sea captains and containing the latest information and nautical advice about the sea lanes and ports they were to visit. There was also a last private briefing with Captain Patey, an experienced seaman himself. Once more, the route would be discussed, along with the foreseeable dangers, the crew and of course the welfare of the passengers. It was once again impressed upon Captain Boyle that he was carrying a large, virtually unprecedented number of people on a very long voyage, and that their welfare was paramount.
Boyle’s arrival on board sent a charge of authority coursing through the Ticonderoga’s timbers, and the settling passengers could sense a new energy and confidence in the crew. Departure was now imminent and unstoppable. Captain Patey followed Boyle aboard, accompanied by Liverpool’s Assistant Emigration Officer, Mr Kenneth Sutherland, who made one last round of the lower decks. The three held a brief final conference, exchanged paperwork officially handing the ship over to the captain and shook hands. All were pleased with what they saw of the Ticonderoga’s preparations.7 Having given Boyle the all-clear to depart, Patey and Sutherland proceeded down the gangway. At the bottom waited one final figure to whom Sutherland uttered the words ‘The ship is yours, Mr Pilot’ as he passed. The man bowed slightly, then confidently strode up onto the vessel, the last person to come aboard. Greeting Captain Boyle, both men headed for the forecastle, positioning themselves just behind the helmsman, who clutched the Ticonderoga’s big wheel and prepared to hand it into the capable hands of the pilot, who would guide the big ship out through the mouth of the river into Liverpool Bay.
It was an uncharacteristically warm, muggy day with high cloud. Every one of the Ticonderoga’s nearly 800 passengers crowded onto the ship’s upper deck. Suddenly, shouted commands to ‘Cast off starboard! Cast off port!’ were heard, then relayed down the length of the ship as ropes were dropped and slack taken up. Then the sound of a steam whistle and the churning of water could be heard as two steam-driven tugs began to pull the Ticonderoga away from the wharf. At once, a passenger gave a shout, ‘Three cheers for Mr and Mrs Smith!’ and three throaty ‘hurrahs’ rose in chorus. The two figures on the wharf acknowledged the gesture, Mr Smith removing his hat and bowing to those people whose last days in England he and his wife had done their best to make as easy as possible. Beside them, Captain Patey also accepted some of the praise with a salute. All three knew, however, that no matter what awaited their passengers on the journey, the days ahead would be a great deal harder than they could even imagine. Each offered up a silent prayer.
As the great ship moved slowly out into the wide Mersey River, people gathered along the river’s banks to see her off. Small craft of all descriptions—skiffs, ferries and fishing boats, dwarfed by the great clipper ship—darted about her like excited minnows. Then there was a sudden booming, which echoed in a ripple across the river, and the Ticonderoga was enveloped in smoke, causing many of her passengers to let out a startled cry and wails to arise from the children. In a grand gesture of farewell, all eight of the ship’s cannons—kept on all ships of size at the time—had been loaded blank and fired.8 Those watching her on shore were heartily impressed and echoed the gunfire with a roar of approval of their own. Under partial sail and still accompanied by her tugs, the Ticonderoga emerged majestically from her self-created shroud of blue-grey smoke and headed down the Mersey as handkerchiefs were waved and eyes, swollen with tears, watched the shapes of loved ones and friends recede.
Once out into the river, the cry went out from the first mate, ‘All ready forward?’ and ‘Mainsail, haul!’ Then there was a rush of men heading aft, pulling on the braces to turn the gigantic spars towards the breeze. ‘Steady your helm! Keep her full!’ continued the cries as the Ticonderoga put on sail. Sometimes large ships would be caught in the doldrums, occasionally for weeks, pathetically close to their departure point, waiting for the winds to pick up and their journey to begin. The Ticonderoga was lucky this early August day, however, and a decent breeze was standing by to fill her sheets as she passed through the wide mouth of the Mersey. The small craft that had come to see her off gradually dropped away. The passengers looked up to the rigging in amazement, still unused to the sight of men clambering across it like monkeys, apparently oblivious to the deadly drop to the deck below. Then, with the brief sound of a steam whistle, the tugs pulled away.
Once past the mouth of the Mersey, the Ticonderoga shortened sail briefly to allow a pilot vessel to come alongside. The pilot wished the captain the best for the long journey and handed the big oak wheel over to the helmsman. A call went around for any last messages to be taken ashore and a few notes were hastily scribbled. Some passengers watched in silence as he descended the ship’s ladder, taking with him their last connection to the old world. Now they were finally and entirely on their own. If all went to plan, nothing would be heard of the Ticonderoga or the souls on board until they reached the shores of Australia.
Suddenly, they were out into Liverpool Bay heading due west along the coast of Wales. Had they kept going, they would have sailed across the Irish Sea almost directly into Dublin Bay; instead, many hours later, they rounded the island of Holyhead, passed the famous South Stack Lighthouse then proceeded through St George’s Channel, running between Ireland and Wales, before turning onto the heading that would barely alter for two months: due south. Way over on the port side, some took a last glimpse at the home they knew they would never see again, and the last sight of land ebbed quietly over the horizon.
10
Clearances and famine: The tragedy of the Highlands
When the Scots emigrants walked up the gangway from the Birkenhead depot onto the Ticonderoga’s deck for the first time, more than a century had passed since the day in 1746 when, on a bleak moor near Inverness, the old dream of a Scottish king returning to the British throne was buried once and for all in blasts of musket and grapeshot. Yet, 106 years later, the Duke of Cumberland’s guns still reverberated in echoes of despair throughout the Highlands.
Even in their forefathers’ time, only a fraction of the clans1 had supported the delusions of the so-called Young Pretender, Charles Edward Stuart. His wild-eyed followers hurled flowers into his path, dubbed him their ‘Bonnie Prince’, their dark-eyed Roman Catholic darling, their saviour—all this despite him having placed not so much as a foot on Scottish soil until the age of 25, and the fact that his title ‘Prince’ existed in name only. Most other Highlanders watched in dread and foreboding as this Great Jacobite Rebellion, this fancy of the Catholics and those mad, unpredictable Episcopalians, gathered its brief head of steam before shattering in disaster as a rag-tag army of half-starved clansmen withered in front of the Duke of Cumberland’s Regiments of Foot, two of which happened to be Scottish themselves. But despite many not supporting the uprising, all would be made to suffer its defeat.
In the end, the grandson of a deposed and long-dead king would prove no match for the warrior son of a reigning monarch. Earning his sobriquet ‘the Butcher’, Cumberland carried out the orders given by his father, King George III, and saw to it that no clansman was left alive on the battlefield of Culloden. Dead and wounded were thrown together into pits and buried, dead or alive.
Thus began the pacification of the Highlands. In an indication of the depth of the shock felt by the Hanoverians at the Jacobin uprising, Cumberland embarked on a sustained and cold-blooded campaign, hunting down clansmen like dogs and eradicating Highland culture root and branch. The tartan was outlawed; the pipes forbidden. Roads were now policed
and those caught speaking Gaelic were punished by imprisonment or death. With the passing of the Heritable Jurisdictions (Scotland) Act, the Highland chiefs were stripped of their powers, and eventually the entire clan system, which had evolved over a thousand years and formed the bedrock of Highland society, was smashed forever.
Worse even than this treatment at the hands of the old enemy, the English, however, was the betrayal by their own. Warlords no longer, the estate-owning lairds of southern Scotland—upon whose largesse and sufferance tens of thousands of tenant farmers had relied for centuries to eke out some kind of living on their tiny plots of fertile land, decided to cash in their centuries-old traditions and become rich.
Since as long as anyone could remember, in a system that had evolved little since feudal times, the land-owning gentry had sub-let their vast estates to tacksmen, who in turn leased ‘tacks’ or strips of fertile land collectively to the farming families of a village or town. The system, known as run rig, had served Highlanders for generations. The rent gathered from those at the bottom of the pyramid was, however, small, sometimes pitifully so. And while in previous times, the landowners had been happy to count their assets in numbers of loyal clansmen willing to wield a broadsword in their name, their desires from the mid-1700s became decidedly more worldly.
The landowning Scots quickly began to dissociate from the rough ways of the Highlanders. They married pretty English wives who preferred a townhouse in Belgravia to an estate in the glens, and who chose to venture no further north than a ball at a wealthy home on the outskirts of Edinburgh. They affected English manners, courted English friends and agreed with them that the Gaelic, after all, had always been a barbarous tongue for a barbarous people.
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