A large ship like the Ticonderoga could likewise be guaranteed to be surrounded by a small flotilla eager to begin disembarking her passengers. Captain Boyle brought his big ship within sight of the large jetty at Hobson’s Bay. There he dropped anchor and waited. Not a boat came near them. Some of the passengers, bewildered, waved handkerchiefs and called, but to no avail. Some of the craft in fact had set off in the opposite direction as soon as the Ticonderoga came to rest. Captain Boyle cursed bitterly to himself. He had suspected exactly this scenario might well occur, despite the many assurances ha had been given that any number of boats would be eager to disembark his passengers.
The Ticonderoga’s reputation had preceded her arrival into Melbourne. Ever since that first sensational headline appeared in early November, readers of The Argus had been lapping up every morbid detail of this ‘plague ship’. Now nobody wanted to go near her. Even the hardened men of the small taxiing boats were wary of this big black beauty, allegedly riddled with disease. The papers had reported both yellow fever and scarlatina, but the rumour mill amplified this to include every ailment known to man. Hundreds had perished horribly within her wooden walls. Worse, she was not even British, but an American vessel—a Hell Ship—having journeyed through God knows what pestilential waters, picking up the dreaded yellow jack of the American south. One boat, at last, stood off from the Ticonderoga and answered the appeals of her passengers and crew. It was to no avail. The sailor apologised, but said they would simply have to wait there on board—wait for what exactly he did not say before once again disappearing.
And so they did wait, the rest of that day, then all night, then all the following day and then yet another night. This had not been planned for. The ship’s bunks and bedding were long gone, and there was virtually nowhere to sleep. The galleys had not been prepared for use and food was limited to what remained of the old store of ship’s biscuits. To many, the Ticonderoga once again began to feel like the prison of old.
Finally, on Christmas Eve, after some deft negotiating by Captain Boyle, a solution of sorts began to take shape. The weather was hot and windy, with an ominous bank of thick grey cloud building up in the western sky. With this dramatic backdrop, Boyle announced that a solution had been found. What he did not know was that it involved one of the most unfortunate vessels in the colony, the paddle-steamer Maitland.
She was old, a smallish vessel of just over 100 tons, built as a transport to run coal between Newcastle and Sydney. In 1851, the Maitland was bought as an investment by the colourful entrepreneur Captain George Ward ‘Old King’ Cole, who must immediately have regretted the decision. Cole had made a fortune around the colonies in such dubious trades as sandalwood and opium, had built the city’s first private wharf on his property on the Yarra River, as well as the first screw steamer in the southern hemisphere, and was one of the young town’s social celebrities. He counted Lieutenant-Governor La Trobe among his wealthy and influential friends, and was famous for his lavish outdoor parties, attended by hundreds of the well-to-do, with no expense spared. He had had recent success running passenger services across Bass Strait to Tasmania, but saw an opening in the market for providing a similar service between Melbourne and Geelong. Besides, he needed a cash flow to compensate for the recent decision of the government to close his private wharf due to the phenomenon of absconding ships’ crews. Deciding to buy and refit the old Maitland as a passenger vessel, he put her under the command of one Robert Dyson. When nearly ready to begin operating, however, Dyson almost drowned in his cabin when, for no apparent reason, the Maitland started to sink around him while tied up at Queen’s Wharf.
The reason for her sinking was never discovered, but Cole decided to fork out for the old tub to be re-floated and repaired nonetheless. But the Maitland’s ill luck continued, however, when in October 1852, the hapless Captain Dyson was at fault in a collision with another vessel, which he damaged severely, and which just happened to be the official boat of Governor La Trobe’s Chief Health Officer, Dr Thomas Hunt—who, as we have seen in his dealings with Dr Taylor, was not a man to suffer fools or incompetence lightly.
Following the accident, a furious Hunt was forced to borrow a Customs boat to carry out his work, and promptly laid a charge against Captain Dyson and Cole, her owner, who he disliked in any case, eminent social status notwithstanding. Sensing that there was no future in the Maitland as a passenger ship, Cole decided to use her simply as a tug. Few people, however, wanted to use her, and Cole started to realise he had been saddled with a lemon. Thus when the big black clipper said to be a plague ship arrived and dropped anchor in the bay, only to be summarily ignored by all, Dyson saw an opportunity for the Maitland to at last turn a profit.
Being the only vessel to have approached her, Dyson and Boyle needed only a brief conversation. Yes, Dyson would take his passengers off and deposit them up the Yarra River at Queen’s Wharf, but he would charge them handsomely for the privilege. For the passengers, there was no choice in the matter. Boyle, however, insisted that it would be done in an orderly fashion, with people being required to stay below decks until they were called up to embark on the Maitland.
As the preparations were beginning for the first of the passengers, the thunderstorm that had been threatening all morning broke suddenly and violently over the bay and a squall sprang up, rocking the ship dramatically. Then, at its height, a bolt of lightning struck one of the yardarms, setting it on fire. The accompanying thunderclap was startling enough for the people below, but with the accompanying shouts of ‘Fire!’ heard from above, pandemonium broke out below. Believing the Ticonderoga to be ablaze, passengers made a rush for the hatches, but Boyle quickly ordered them battened down to avoid a deadly panic. The flames were quickly extinguished by the crew, and Boyle managed to convince his people that they were in not, in fact, in danger, but he could see that all of them were frazzled and at the end of their wits.
The first group of passengers resumed their embarkation onto the Maitland without further incident—not that the welcome from Captain Dyson was a warm one. Neither he nor his small crew would come anywhere near these ragged people, fearing they would be instantly struck down with whatever ghastly disease they happened to have. He angrily barked at them to load on, at one stage not even waiting for a husband to gather his wife and seven-week-old infant, who were left on the ship until the next run.1 After what they had been through, for the passengers of the Ticonderoga, this was the final ignominy.
Back and forth the Maitland putted all day of that Christmas Eve, making the 12-kilometre run from the ship to Queen’s Wharf on the Yarra River, observed by a growing crowd of onlookers. When word got around that they were from the dreaded plague ship stranded out in the bay, some quietly shuffled away, while still others gathered to gape. It was a world away from how the passengers had once envisaged their entry into Melbourne, but at least they had arrived, and could finally begin to think about the next stage of their journey and their lives.
One of the onlookers that day, despite the reputation accompanying the ship and her passengers, allowed his curiosity to prevail, and approached Captain Dyson as he was preparing to return to the ship for another load. He would like to go out and see this so-called plague ship for himself, he said, and requested a passage. Dyson looked at the man as if he were deranged, but was happy enough to accept his money. Out in the bay, not content with simply viewing the Ticonderoga from the deck of the Maitland, the curious passenger even went aboard her for a half-hour inspection while another load of people was being prepared.
Two days later, on 31 December 1852, one of the most controversial missives of the entire saga appeared in the letters to the editor pages of The Argus. Signing himself simply ‘Observer’, the anonymous gentleman penned the following:
Sir—On Friday last I had occasion to visit the Bay on business, and while going round the shipping in the Maitland, we called alongside of the Ticonderago [sic], for the purpose of bringing the passengers up to town. B
eing a sea-faring man and curious to know the state of the vessel which had been the scene of such unparalleled disease I went on board, and very soon ceased to be surprised at anything which had taken place on board this ill-fated vessel. The miserable squalid appearance of the passengers at once attracted my attention, and on looking down the hatchway, the smell and appearance of the between decks was so disgusting, that though accustomed to see and be on board of slave vessels, I instinctively shrank from it. I have no hesitation in expressing it as my decided opinion that the disease in this ship was mainly caused by the carelessness and inattention to cleanliness on the part of the master and his officers, and the want of ventilation. Several people were lying about the decks, apparently in the last stage of disease, and the passengers were bundled over the side without any accommodation ladder or the least regard to decency and decorum. In fact, the captain and crew seemed to look upon them as perfect nuisances, to be got rid of on any terms. The invalid women were carried over the side on men’s backs, and one poor creature was separated from his child of seven weeks old, another child of 5 years of age died on board the steamer before we reached the wharf, no arrangements were made at the wharf for the reception of the sick, and two women in a dying state, were taken away in common wharf drays.
Bad as this is, I am sorry to say it is but an every day occurrence at our wharfs, and while our government, on the principle of straining at gnats and swallowing camels, is ever ready to insist on ventilation of berths and limitations of passengers in Colonial crafts on short voyages, never scruples to tolerate Yankees, and others, and proffer facilities, when they are smart enough to secure the presence of our illustrious Governor and his sapient suite to Sunday dinners in their well provided cuddies, when of course it would display great want of taste to talk about, much less to examine, between deck berths or the miserable creatures who occupy them. What is the use of having Quarantine laws if they are not enforced and upon what principle do we for our own real or imaginary safety stop a vessel at the Heads for disease, without at the same time providing an hospital there for their cure as is done in every other civilized country—and why is this ship allowed to come and vomit her diseased and dying freight in the midst of an over-crowded city? Men despair of the Government ever doing anything effective in these matters, unless it is forced upon them by the voice of the people through our independent press.
Was there any truth to what this man reported having seen, or did he simply wish to re-stoke the smouldering fires of the Ticonderoga’s infamy in the press? The ship had most certainly been cleaned, but her passengers had been forced to spend another three unplanned-for nights on board the ship, and were undoubtedly famished and at the end of their tether.
There is also some evidence to suggest that at least some passengers were still suffering from illness, but this was unlikely to have been typhus. Dr Sanger remained convinced that no typhus cases left the quarantine station—both he and Dr Veitch had rigorously inspected everyone before embarkation and found no evidence of the dread disease.
From Queen’s Wharf in Melbourne’s centre, the Ticonderoga’s passengers, hot, exhausted and demoralised, made their way slowly up through the dusty streets of the city three blocks away to the Immigration Barracks and labour exchange at the corner of Spencer and Collins Streets. It was an austere building that was only two years old, but a vast improvement on the appalling 2000-strong tent city on the south side of the Yarra that had greeted all assisted immigrants up until 1848. The colonial government in no way wanted to encourage the notion of dependence on charity, and the Barracks, it was made clear, was only available for a short stay, despite the traumas undergone by its inmates.
Finally, the bedraggled survivors of the Ticonderoga lined up in front of the reception desks to become simply another intake of new arrivals from Britain, like thousands who had come before and even more who would follow, stating their name, occupation, religion and marital status. For this last category, many found themselves having to describe themselves, for the first time, as ‘widow’ or ‘widower’.
As the new arrivals shuffled in—some had managed, as reported by the ‘Observer’, to find a lift up from the wharf on bullock drays—they were watched with great interest by the man representing the Board in Victoria, Immigration Agent Edward Grimes. He was only too well aware of the sorry saga of the Ticonderoga, not least the damage it had done to his organisation’s reputation and the notion of assisted emigration generally. To his horror, he would discover a number of cases of what he believed to be typhus still prevailing among these new arrivals, and would start another round in the to-ing and fro-ing of recriminations and blame. In a furious letter to the Colonial Secretary, Lonsdale, he charged that Dr Hunt had been negligent in his duty by allowing several still-sick passengers to leave the quarantine station early, essentially backing up the opinions expressed by the ‘Observer’. Hunt would have none of it, and insisted that all those who had left Point Nepean were typhus-free, later noting that no further outbreak of typhus that could in any way be associated with the arriving passengers was reported.
Whatever their condition, most of those from the Ticonderoga would not have to reside long at the Barracks. The single women were the first to be snapped up. On a daily basis, representatives of the families of the wealthy, desperate for domestic labour, would scour the faces of the new arrivals and make the brightest looking girls a handsome offer—usually far in excess of what they could have expected at home—to be maids, cooks or nannies. So denuded of ordinary labourers had the gold rush made Melbourne that the men also could suddenly find themselves in positions paying as much as £70 a year with lodging for them and their families provided. This was a fortune compared with what they had earned at home.
By mid-February, however, Edward Grimes was obliged to put in a bill to the government for having to continue to provide for the upkeep of no less than 30 widows, orphans and other families who could not find a placement. Some, it seemed—at least for the time being—were unable to adjust to their new life after the terrible shock of the journey.
30
Life goes on
A few days after the appearance of the letter penned by the so-called ‘Observer’, Dr Sanger had his right of reply in The Argus:
Sir—
A garbled and false representation respecting the state of the ship Ticonderago [sic] having appeared in The Argus of Friday last written by a person who signs himself ‘Observer’. I beg you will allow me the space of a few lines to disabuse the public on that subject, more particularly as that statement unjustly reflects on the conduct of the Captain and Officers of the vessel. Those gentlemen having evinced the most hearty desire for the welfare of the emigrants throughout the whole of her disastrous voyage. So far from the generality of the people being in an emaciated condition, as ‘Observer’ seems to imply, the fact is, that out of nearly 600 only two were sent to the hospital; about a dozen were suffering more of less from diarrhoea or debility, none severely; the rest were in perfect health. The apparently unseemly haste with which the passengers were hurried over the side was caused by the impatience of the captain of the steamer, who would not wait a moment even to allow the husband of the mother of a seven-week’s infant to join his wife with the child. When the people were re-embarked from the Sanitary Station on the Monday previous, the ship was perfectly clean; but it having been necessary to take down the berths, and destroy them for the purpose of thoroughly purifying the vessel, the passengers were obliged for a few days they remained on board to lie on the decks, thus causing an untidy appearance, and a difficulty of attending minutely to cleanliness. As regards the Government officials, I can testify that the greatest pains were taken to thoroughly eradicate the disease before granting the ship pratique, and not a single case of infectious disease existed at the time the vessel left Point Nepean. I am, Sir, Your most obt. Servt., J.C. SANGER, M.D., Surgeon Superintendent ship Ticonderago [sic]
It was one of the last public word
s on the whole affair, as gradually the interest of the public moved on.
Joseph Sanger would recover from the trials of the Ticonderoga and, unperturbed by what he had been through, would continue to serve at sea under the Colonial Land and Emigration Commission for many years. No drama he would subsequently encounter, however, would ever eclipse that of the Ticonderoga. He was highly praised for his role, and his gratuity was increased from £200 to £250.
The family lines established by the surviving passengers of the Ticonderoga spread into all aspects of Australian life, with many thousands claiming their place as descendants to this day. The last known Ticonderoga survivor, Mrs Isabel Hennessey of Mortlake in Victoria, lived until 1944, having arrived 92 years earlier, with her family as an infant.1
Christopher McRae, who had walked the 60 miles from the camp to his relatives in Coburg, lived to the age of 96, a resident of the Victorian agricultural town of Maffra. His mother’s grave and those of his siblings were relocated to the quarantine station’s new cemetery in 1952 with a new headstone that reads:
Hell Ship Page 23
