As they listened, Sullivan and Cannon, who had watched the vessel’s ominous approach from the other side of the bay the day before, realised that their worst fears were unfolding. None of it came as a complete surprise. It had now been months since the small surveying party led by the important doctor from Melbourne, Thomas Hunt, first arrived to inspect their beach and its environs. From that moment, the brothers-in-law realised that the clock was ticking on the day the government would take it back from them. For Sullivan, whose parents had already suffered exile back in Ireland when people of power decided they would leave their land, it seemed that history was repeating itself.
With some rudimentary shelters established, Veitch made an assessment of the little hospital ward taking shape on the beach and was pleased by what he saw. Delivering his patients to shore, however, would be a far more difficult matter. Except for the very worst cases, though, the risk must be taken to remove them from the ship, where he knew only too well there was no hope for them whatever. Again, the crew of the Ticonderoga would carry out the task, being instructed to extract people as delicately as possible from their berths or from the ship’s hospital and carry them, literally on their backs, to the deck then down the long gangway to the waterline, where rowboats would take them to shore. Some of the sick could walk, but not many.
Reporting back to Sanger, Veitch was told to delay not a moment further. It was a long, miserable and enervating process for all concerned, but by the end of the first day at the cove, 40 of the Ticonderoga’s most feverish and delirious passengers had been taken off and laid down on dry land for the first time in three months. Some, however, were simply too sick to move and were compelled to remain on the ship. For those who came ashore, it was all they could do to crawl into the shady nooks and shelters that had been provided for them by the sailors. Passenger James Dundas recalled years later that ‘there was very little canvas for tents, so they had to make bush mia-mias for us to camp in them … like black fellows’.1 Here, at the very least, they could look up at a clear sky, released finally from the dreadful smell, the deathly, suffocating atmosphere and incessant rocking of the ship.
The ship’s doctors, by contrast, could indulge in no such relief, faced as they were with an entirely new set of problems. Veitch estimated to Sanger that upwards of 250 people still required treatment and that not enough of anything was available to help them. To start with, there was hardly any bedding left on board that was not putrid, that of the dead having been thrown overboard after them, and much of the spare sailcloth had gone as well. And how were they expected to feed this burgeoning beach hospital? Time would be needed to remove stoves and other facilities from the ship and relocate them on to land. Nor were there any medical comforts remaining, with both Veitch and Sanger having now exhausted their own stocks as well as the ship’s. Then there was the question of who was to bury the dead, mounting up perilously on the deck in the warm spring sun. For it was now, upon arriving at her destination, that the Ticonderoga’s death toll reached its terrible zenith.
In the first few days of November, within clear sight of land, no less than fourteen people died on board the Ticonderoga. Alexander Mercer, 32, from Edinburgh followed his infant son, who had been one of the ship’s earliest victims back in August, leaving only his wife and six-year-old boy. The infant Elizabeth Wilkie perished—mercifully the only member of her family of five to do so—but the very opposite was the case for the Appleby family, which saw the death on 2 November of John Appleby, three, following his younger sister Emma and his mother Sarah to the grave, leaving Silas Appleby, 28, alone in a new and unfamiliar world.
The list continued: Euphemia Reid, 36; John Spinwright, 30; Janet Stevenson; and Mary Bunton, 31. Little James Isbister would be the first—but not the last—to die from his very large family of twelve, who had possibly travelled the furthest of anyone on board the Ticonderoga, having left their home in the remote Orkney Islands off Scotland’s north-east coast.
The worst day of the voyage was 4 November, when seven people died. One of those was Elizabeth Harcus, twenty, who the very next day would be joined by her sixteen-year-old sister, Mary, as the disease tore through the single women’s quarters. By the end of the voyage, her father, George, would have lost all the women in his family as well as a son. There would be more deaths the next day, and the day after that until the warm spring sunshine and healing rest would gradually begin their work. Meanwhile, the ship continued to be awash with misery, but the focus of Drs Veitch and Sanger had to be on the living. Without the continued assistance of their volunteer nurses, Mr and Mrs Fanning and the steady Highland lass Annie Morrison, the doctors could not possibly have coped.
When dusk came, a good number of the sickest passengers had been placed ashore in their hastily constructed quarters. It being too risky to continue transferring patients after dark, Captain Boyle called a halt to the proceedings as the sun started to set. As he did, he was approached by one of the more senior passengers on board, 49-year-old Malcolm McRae, who had travelled with his wife, Helen, 39, and their seven children ranging from seventeen-year-old Christopher to Malcolm, two, who was currently sick. As McRae would later recall in his letter in The Argus, he politely explained to the captain in his soft Highland accent that his only daughter, Janet, ten, had died that afternoon and he would like permission to go ashore and bury her. To Boyle, he looked as utterly worn out as a man could be, but he was at pains to maintain his dignity as well as his manners. The captain had no doubt a refusal would be met simply with a nod, a ‘Thank-you, Captain’, and a quiet departure. Despite the last of the rowboats having returned for the night, some light still remained on the western horizon. Boyle looked around for one of his crew. ‘You would need to be quick, Sir,’ he said to McRae. ‘I cannot have you returning in the dark.’ McRae shook his hand. ‘I thank you, Captain,’ he said, with just a hint of a failing voice.
With the help of her eldest brother, Christopher, the girl was retrieved from below and her father carried her out, under a cloth, her small body appearing to weigh little more than the cold, damp clothes that clung to her. He was led down the side gangway and waited there while the sailor retrieved the small rowboat. Doyle watched them as they set off for the nearby shore, the rich red rays of a dazzling sunset lighting his expressionless face.
A short time later, at the very edge of the dusk, they returned to the ship, where yet more grief awaited Malcolm McRae. His son, Malcolm, had also now died. Once more, he politely requested permission to bury him, but this time Boyle had to refuse. ‘Thank you, Captain,’ was the man’s only reply, as he nodded and turned quietly away, having lost two children in a single day. His son would be buried beside his sister the next morning, in a dry plot behind the dunes that the first mate had pegged out that afternoon. The boy would not be the last member of his family that McRae would have to bury before the ordeal was finally over.
24
The Lysander
Sick and bewildered, not understanding why help from Melbourne had failed to arrive, Dr Sanger that evening dictated a midnight letter to James Veitch (which, 131 years later, I would find in the Public Record Office in Kew). He intended it to be read by the highest authorities in the colony, but not knowing exactly who they were, he addressed it somewhat generally to ‘the Colonial Secretary’, who at that time was also Port Phillip’s first police magistrate, William Lonsdale.
Sir,
I have the honour to announce the arrival of the Ship Ticonderoga from Liverpool with a large number of government immigrants on board under my superintendence.
I deeply regret to have to inform you of the serious amount of formidable sickness prevalent during the whole Voyage, especially toward the latter part, and of the long list of Fatal cases resulting therefrom, in the greater numbers from Scarlatina and other Febrile diseases, nearly the whole of which have assumed a Typhoid character … which appears rather on the increase than otherwise and I fear will continue to do so as long as the e
migrants are in the vessel. The Deaths have been 100 in number and Births 19. No. of souls dispatched from Liverpool 795. There are at present at least 250 patients requiring treatment, and both my coadjutor Mr Veitch and myself are almost wearied out by the constant demand for our services, especially as it is impossible to get proper nurses for the sick in sufficient numbers.1
He then requests
sufficient supplies of medicines including, Porter and Ale, Wine and Brandy sufficient for the Emergency; also a quantity of beds and bedding as those belonging to the majority of the patients seriously ill are completely spoiled. As the state of the Emigrants demands steps to be taken instantly for their relief, the Captain and myself have made arrangements for the removal of a portion of them on Shore, a covering of a temporary nature being in the course of erection. From the statement of the Pilot who directed us to proceed to the Quarantine ground, and informed us that the Emigrants might go on shore, we expected to have been visited by the health officer to-day, but as no less than seven persons have died within the last 24 hours, and many more are in a very precarious state, we have deemed it indispensably necessary to apply for the articles annexed without delay.2
When, a few days later, Lonsdale put the letter in front of Lieutenant-Governor La Trobe, the worst of his earlier fears for the Ticonderoga were confirmed.
* * * *
The morning following Sanger’s late-night missive, Captain Ferguson, along with the new sanitary station superintendent Joseph Taylor, finally arrived aboard the fully laden Empire. Having sailed through the night, he pulled up in the Empire and stood off from the much larger ship lying quietly at anchor in the little cove called Abraham’s Bosom. ‘What ship is that?’ Ferguson called. At first there was no response to the prescribed maritime ritual. He hailed her again. ‘What ship is that?’ If the captain was not on deck, the officer of the watch would normally be the one designated to make the response. But the great black clipper was as quiet as the grave. Eventually, a weary voice hailed back in the dawn light across the glassy still water, ‘Ticonderoga’.
Taking a risk that pilot Henry Draper refused to even consider, Ferguson went straight aboard, accompanied by Dr Taylor, to meet with Boyle, Sanger and Veitch. As they listened to what these three exhausted men told them of the voyage, as well as what they could see for themselves, Ferguson realised things were even worse than he had thought. Boyle appeared spent, a man utterly at the end of his tether, Veitch not much better and Sanger still ill.
The deaths on board had now well exceeded 100, Boyle continued, with more people dying every day. More than 200 were still sick. More than a dozen bodies were lying here on the deck—some had been there for days—and their immediate burial was of critical concern. Looking around at this scene of horror, a suddenly very pale Joseph Taylor began to glean what he had so hastily signed up for. One of the most recent deaths, Boyle then said, was his very own brother, the Ticonderoga’s third mate, William Boyle, who had succumbed to the fever just hours earlier. The visiting men offered their sincerest sympathies, and from that moment, Harbour Master Ferguson took charge of the situation.
In his report penned to Governor La Trobe a few days later, which has survived, Ferguson recounts a whirlwind of activity that he instigated in the days following his arrival. His first and most urgent task was to bury the dead. Then he needed to transfer the large amount of stores from the Empire to the shore, working the two ships’ crews hard in the November sunshine. He soon realised that the little Empire’s holds were not nearly generous enough for this emergency. The Lysander, he knew, was being prepared for sail and should arrive soon, but even with what she held, more would be needed. Leaving an increasingly alarmed Dr Taylor to gather a thorough understanding of the state of illness on board, as well as to sort out the stores, Ferguson and Veitch ventured ashore to inspect the makeshift hospital under canvas and ti-tree branches, as well as the patients it contained. Here, Veitch explained, they—as had he—spent their first night off the ship, accompanied where possible by members of their families and some of the remaining nurses, such as Annie Morrison and the indefatigable Fannings; however, more properly trained medical and nursing staff were sorely needed. Ferguson wrote, ‘I landed and found about forty of the sick people in temporary tents near the lime-kiln and houses occupied by Mr Patrick Sullivan.’3
Sullivan would not occupy them for long. In his hand, Ferguson brandished an order for the eviction of all tenants within the proposed quarantine area, the boundaries of which would now be outlined. They would, he added, be generously compensated for the breaking of their leases, as well as the requisitioning of their dwellings. He trusted that there would be no trouble. Enlisting some of the burlier members of the crews of the Empire and the Ticonderoga, he made his authority clear to the assembled families and delivered the news. It was all here in black and white, he said, signed personally by the Lieutenant-Governor himself, that he, Charles Ferguson, Harbourmaster
holds an authority from me … to take such steps as may be found desirable in withdrawing from licensed occupation such portion of land as may be required for the purpose of the immediate formation of a quarantine station at the Heads …4
Then, heading off into the bush with a small pot of whitewash, Ferguson paced out what he considered to be the reasonably accurate boundary of the station. It was not by any standards a fastidious measurement, and would not have met with the approval of his colleague the Surveyor-General, Robert Hoddle, but this was far from a normal situation.
Sullivan had built a series of wattle and daub cottages, including a reasonably substantial one of three rooms and a small dairy cellar, albeit in disrepair, which lay in the middle of the proposed station. This, explained Ferguson, would now be requisitioned and occupied by the sick, for which Sullivan would be compensated £200: ‘I also arranged with Mr William Cannon who holds a lime-burner’s licence within the limits of the proposed quarantine ground to remove to the Westward of the boundary line.’5
The more of the area Ferguson explored, the more he believed Hunt’s initial recommendation for the site to have been a sound one. As well as bush, he reported a large area of
dry open country, a large portion of which is capable of immediate cultivation, with abundance of timber, and from the statements of the Pilots, and those who have resided there for many years, plenty of fresh water can be got at all seasons by sinking wells at a moderate depth. The anchorage is quite secure, any vessel can lay in safety within a quarter of a mile of the beach.6
There was also an area of several acres under cultivation with oats and potatoes, which would be of good use.
Red marker lines were laid out to delineate various other necessary aspects of the station, and by making all who were there again walk over the boundaries with him, Ferguson made sure everyone understood exactly the new parameters of their changing world. Failing to respect those parameters, he added, would lead to severe consequences. Then, satisfied with the rudimentary layout, Ferguson ordered two 30-foot timbers to be taken from the ship’s carpentry stores and brought ashore. Two holes were dug several yards apart, and the timbers were erected as flagpoles, marking out in the boldest terms the entrance of the station—directly off the beach, facing the water, so that any who approached would be in no doubt that this was no longer simply a quiet piece of beach.
The next morning, to Ferguson’s considerable relief, the great hulk of the Lysander hove into view. Three vessels of size—a small but impressive fleet—had now dropped anchor inside the previously quiet cove of Abraham’s Bosom. More stores were offloaded, then Ferguson requested that Captain Boyle assemble all his able-bodied passengers. In terms that invited neither question nor equivocation, Ferguson informed them that all joiners, carpenters, stonemasons—in fact, every man skilled in a useful trade—were as of now employed by the government at a rate of 5 shillings a day. A quarantine station needed to be built right here, he told them, and they were going to build it. Those who had not travelled
with their own tools would be provided with them from the Ticonderoga’s stores, or those of the Lysander. The men, slightly dumbfounded, looked around at each other briefly, then nodded in assent. The stonemasons went ashore first, and were told to begin work on a couple of simple storehouses utilising the abundance of limestone that surrounded them. Aside from the pay, which was at a rate greater than they could expect doing similar work at home, most were happy to finally be of some use after the ghastly voyage when all they could do was wait for death to stalk yet another victim.
Apart from the practical advantage of an instant labour force, Ferguson, who had worked with men all his life at sea, on no account wanted idle and potentially disgruntled hands lying about with nothing to do but brood on their ill fortune. In his report, he dared to
respectfully suggest that the Colonial Architect send down at once a plain plan or sketch of a large airy barracks or depot, as there is an abundance of materials on the spot for its construction, which would furnish immediate work for the healthy Emigrants, who ought on no account to wander about the station in idleness.7
Realising that sick people could endure only so much sleeping on a beach, and that an alternative quickly needed to be found, Ferguson drew Sanger and Veitch to the rail, and indicated the Lysander. This, he told them, was to be their new hospital. Fifty new beds plus new blankets and bedding had been provided, and he suggested they begin transferring the most serious patients over to it as soon as possible. The Ticonderoga, he added, was no longer viable as a place for the sick.
Sanger thanked him, but pointed out that medical staff of any description were needed desperately. Ferguson did his best to recruit more from the able-bodied passengers, but even his powers of persuasion were barely adequate. He even flexed his authority to intercept one John Chambers and his wife Janet, who were simply catching a ride on board the Lysander to take up a position as assistant lighthouse keeper at Shortland’s Bluff. Now, they were told, they were to be re-employed—at a rate of six shillings a day—as hospital attendants on board the Lysander, which was now a floating hospital.8 This is in itself a testament to the depths of the emergency. Ferguson knew well that lighthouse keepers in the colony were regarded far more highly than nurses, and the step down the social ladder for the young couple—albeit a temporary one—would have been significant indeed. It is reported, however, that both served admirably on board the Lysander, without complaint, for the entire period of its quarantine.
Hell Ship Page 19
