Australia 1851: Gold versus wool
Throughout the 1830s and 1840s, Australia’s growth in wool was hemmed in by an acute shortage of labour. Squatters and landholders became desperate. In 1840, a shepherd in Australia could earn up to £45 a year, three times what his counterpart back in England could bring home, with the deal usually sweetened further by free board and lodging and a generous weekly food allowance that included mutton, flour, sugar and tea.1
The depression flattened off the demand in the mid-1840s, but with the discovery of gold and the rush of the early 1850s, thousands of men walked off jobs in towns and cities alike to flock to the goldfields in search of instant—and usually elusive—wealth. The rural labour problem suddenly became a crisis. The question of who exactly would service the wool industry became an obsession with Australian growers and politicians, particularly as the gigantic clip of 1852 loomed. Luckily, however, Edward Gibbon Wakefield and his Colonial Reformers had a plan.
While the Great Exhibition was holding Britain enthralled, 1851 was also a tumultuous year for Victoria. In July of that year, under a large eucalypt near the southern bank of Melbourne’s Yarra River in what is now that city’s Botanic Gardens, the long-cherished dream of the city’s patrons was realised when the Australian Colonies Government Act 1850 came into effect. The Act transformed Victoria from the Port Phillip District of New South Wales to a Crown colony in its own right, with full independence to arrive by 1855. The erudite French and Swiss-educated poet and painter Charles La Trobe was to be Victoria’s first Lieutenant-Governor. That year, Victorian sheep farmers produced 18 million pounds of wool from 6 million sheep; the whole clip was baled up and sent to fuel the voracious mills of Yorkshire and Lancashire. Nothing, however, was as dramatic as the announcement that gold had been discovered.
In fact, gold had already been found at various places around Victoria and elsewhere, going back to 1839 when the explorer Paul de Strzelecki stumbled across it in the Victorian Alps. Various sheep farmers had uncovered it too, but rightly fearing a flood of crazed and undesirable diggers, they had kept it to themselves. Having listened in dread to the descriptions of chaos that had followed the Californian gold rush of a couple of years earlier, the authorities were likewise loath to let the secret out. Only when the goldfield discoveries in New South Wales threatened Victoria’s economy did La Trobe relent and attempt to face the matter front-on by offering a reward of £300 for anyone who could find gold within 200 miles of Melbourne. The announcement acted as the starting gun to a stampede that would last for years, transforming Victorian colonial society forever.
A complete mental madness appears to have seized almost every member of the community, and as a natural consequence, there has been a universal rush to the diggings. Any attempt to describe the numberless scenes—grave, gay and ludicrous—would require the graphic power of a Dickens … People of all trades, callings and pursuits, were quickly transformed into miners, and many a hand which had been trained to kid gloves, or accustomed to wield nothing heavier than the grey goose quill became nervous to clutch the pick and crow-bar or ‘rock the cradle’ at our infant mines.
So proclaimed the Bathurst Free Press in May 1851, which, like everyone else, was at a loss to process this sudden derangement that had turned society on its head overnight.
With the discovery that the area around the sleepy inland settlements of Castlemaine and Bendigo in fact sat atop one of the world’s richest shallow alluvial goldfields, it seemed that the entire population of Melbourne, then Australia, immediately wanted to go there. In just two years, this antipodean El Dorado yielded around 4 million ounces, almost all of it found within 5 metres of the surface. In a few years, the largest nugget in the world was revealed: a 69-kilogram monster wryly dubbed the ‘Welcome Stranger’; it was so enormous that it had to be broken on an anvil into three pieces in order to weigh it.
In the following ten years, Victoria produced more than one-third of the world’s entire gold output, bewitching the imaginations of the public and press alike, particularly in London, where newspaper articles declared that ‘their stores of gold surpassed the wealth which the stately galleons brought to Spain from South America in the days of Sir Francis Drake’. The arrival of a gold ship in the Port of London would often lead to scenes of mayhem on the Thames, as described by The Times in October 1852:
The ship Medway has arrived in the Thames from Melbourne, Port Phillip, with no less than 67,000 oz. golddust, valued at 270,000 pounds. Immediately on the vessel arriving at Limehouse she was surrounded by a complete fleet of small boats filled with crimps, lodging-house keepers, and other of the longshore fraternity, who made numerous ineffectual efforts to get on board to remove the seamen’s effects under the impression, from the valuable nature of the ship’s cargo, that the men must be equally well stored … The Medway brings one of the most valuable cargoes ever imported by a private vessel into the port of London. It amounts in the aggregate, with cargo and golddust in the hands of passengers, to nearly 600,000 pounds.
By early 1853, armed vessels were each week escorting into London ships from Melbourne carrying gold worth between £170,000 and £200,000.
The rush was not simply one of gold, but of people. From an office in Regent Street, positioned strategically close by that of the Board, crowds assembled daily to undertake the great voyage and visit the diggings—if only in their imaginations. They gazed in wonder at moving panoramas extolling the beauty of the Antipodes, painted by popular artists of the time. There were also seascapes and pictures of exotic Australian animals, as well as handsome scenes of Victoria’s Yarra Valley, Goulbourn and Geelong, as well as the Parramatta River and Blue Mountains of New South Wales. The wonders of the voyage itself were extolled in colourful images of flying fish and porpoises, as well as the many stops along the way: Madeira, Rio de Janeiro and the Cape of Good Hope. The fact that these had now largely been by-passed by the Great Circle route seemed of little consequence to those displaying their images to the captivated spectators.
After starting its life as the ugly duckling of emigration, Victoria was suddenly the most popular destination on Earth. Numbers of new arrivals to Australia in general soon eclipsed the entire total of convicts who had been landed there during the previous 70 years. In the two years from 1851, Victoria’s population increased sixfold from 77,000 to 540,000. Over the next two decades, Australia’s population overall would treble from 430,000 to 1.7 million by 1871.2
But the rush had a terrible downside. The indigenous people of the Kulin nation, the alliance of tribes which had lived and hunted in central Victoria for millenia, already under siege, were catastrophically displaced. Entire forests and tracts of scrub vanished seemingly overnight. Like the frenzy in California, the consequences of such a sudden and uncontrolled injection of wealth into the economy were dangerous and unpredictable. Newly cashed-up miners went on spending sprees, warping the prices of basic items, which soon skyrocketed. Ironically, Melbourne itself became a ghost town, seemingly inhabited by no one but the very old or very young, as men followed their lust for quick wealth to the goldfields. Eighty per cent of the local police force quit, leaving the city to thugs, criminals and packs of marauding dogs. Ships lay idle in the port of Melbourne, unable to sail for lack of crew who had jumped ship as soon as the anchor was dropped. Reports of sea captains vainly trying to restrain their absconding sailors at gunpoint became legion.
It was even worse on the land. Shearers and farmhands, although traditionally well paid, simply walked off their stations to join the ant-like masses scratching over the clays of central Victoria with their new, over-priced picks and shovels.
Meanwhile, the wool still needed to be gathered, and the contracts had to be honoured. News of the rush began to filter back to England and a looming dread settled on the wealthy brows of mill owners. The notion that the annual avalanche of Australian wool could be interrupted, let alone stopped, and the wheels of British industry silenced for no more pedestrian a reason than a paucity of labour was unthinkable.
Anxious letters from Australia were received, then passed on—amplified with urgency—to the government in Westminster. The wool growers of Australia estimated themselves to be facing a 10,000-worker shortfall, and this number was growing. At this rate, the clip for 1852, which was due to be shorn and processed in the Australian spring and promised to be another big one, would remain on the sheep’s back, and the spinning textile mills of England’s industrial north would grind to a halt.
From both England and Australia, fingers were pointed in the direction of the Board, which was seen to simply not be doing its job. What was the good of money from the sale of colonial land being handed over, it was argued, if the Board could not even provide sufficient numbers of people to stave off economic catastrophe? It was decided that the Board’s criteria for accepting emigrants would be overhauled significantly, particularly with regard to children.
Prior to 1851, families with more than three children under ten years of age and two children under seven were excluded from the Board’s scheme.3 Such a burden of offspring, it was argued, would inhibit their parents’ capacity for productive work once they arrived in the colonies. The other factor was the vulnerability of small children to contract and spread disease in the confined incubator of a sailing ship. Small families, and single young men and women—particularly rural and agricultural workers—were the ideal emigrants, and it was to luring these that the Board had directed its attentions.
But in Victoria it was precisely such unencumbered young men who were now deserting towns and cities in droves and heading for the goldfields. The policy would now be turned on its head. Sheep growers and farmers argued that the anchor of a family was in fact the main factor—indeed the only factor—preventing men from deserting, so the Board up-ended its rules to allow families to travel with up to four children under twelve years of age.
Overnight, families who had previously failed to qualify for the golden ticket of assisted passage found themselves accepted, and the exodus was on. So hungry were some Victorian pastoralists for labour that many emigrants had been snapped up for employment even before they embarked. One of the McRae families, for example (there were several on board the Ticonderoga)—Thomas, 46, Margaret, 36, and their five children ranging from four to fourteen—had travelled from their remote village of Kintail deep in the Highlands to Glasgow. From here they caught the ferry to Liverpool and then Birkenhead, where they met hundreds of other families likewise making the journey, such as Alexander and Nora Cameron and their two young children from the Isle of Bute near Glasgow. Whatever trepidations these men may have had about their future, unemployment was not one of them, as the Board had already indentured both families to landowners prepared to pay well for experienced farm labourers. Thomas McRae was to work on a property at Buninyong near Ballarat, while Alexander Cameron, a forester by trade, would live and work at Werribee near Melbourne.
To have such numbers of young families travelling was a new innovation, and emigration vessels that previously had experienced children and infants only in limited numbers would now appear to be overrun by them.
* * * *
This, however, was the last thing on the minds of the superintendents of the embarkation depot, William and Ann Smith, on this sunny August morning, as they prepared to greet this ferry-load of new arrivals—all Scots—stepping onto the little jetty, full of hope and anticipation. For the moment, their primary concern was to make a good impression on the imposing gentleman standing beside them dressed impeccably in a naval officer’s uniform, eyes fixed on the approaching ferry. No less a figure than Captain Charles George Edward Patey RN, an officer with an exemplary record, a veteran of the Mediterranean who had been made commander by age 27, captain by 33, and who would eventually retire a rear-admiral, had been the Board’s choice to be its representative here at the new Birkenhead depot. His brief was simple: to organise the passengers along naval lines, and to make sure the Board’s directives were being carried out to the letter. William and Ann Smith knew that every aspect of their performance would be observed closely.
For the next few days, until they boarded the ship that would take them to a new life across the seas, these people would be in the Smiths’ care. They would be welcomed, fed, organised into groups or ‘desks’, briefed on the routines of ship life, quizzed and scrutinised by Captain Patey and his small staff to be of sound character, medically inspected and given at least some idea of what to expect on the long journey ahead. It would inevitably be a challenging and confusing time, but the Smiths were determined to do their utmost to make it as easy and as pleasant for the passengers as possible, as well as to give Captain Patey no reason to submit an unfavourable report to London. Just a few hundred yards away, tied up on a separate wharf just out of sight behind the main building of the depot, the great ship herself sat waiting.
‘Hello, hello, welcome,’ the Smiths cheerily assured the passengers making their way cautiously down the gangway of the ferry, children—and there were many of them—in tow. They gathered by the growing pile of trunks and luggage boxes being assembled on the jetty. Mrs Smith noticed the women first, in their finest bonnets and shawls but shy and skittish, still uncertain of this unfamiliar world. They nodded demurely towards the Smiths with dark, wary eyes, offering fleeting smiles. The men too were dressed in their finest clothes, although these were often patched and threadbare. They glanced, blank-faced, at their new surroundings, watching constantly over their wives and families. The children, noted the Smiths, were strangely silent. And every one of them was thin.
Then, slowly, a sound—a murmur—started to rise from the group of several dozen as they gathered their bearings and sorted their luggage, a soft, muted sing-song unlike anything Mr and Mrs Smith had ever heard, even in the melting pot of Liverpool. The matron gasped, alarmed yet intrigued by this strange, ancient sound. It was ‘the Gaelic’, the tongue of those proud, but now blighted inhabitants of the wild and faraway Highlands of Scotland. ‘Welcome, you’re all very welcome,’ offered the Smiths more tentatively. But by the mute smiles they received, it soon became clear that large numbers of these people spoke not so much as a word of English.
The unique and tragic saga of the Highland Scots had begun decades earlier, and ended with the bleak acceptance that life as they had known it had become untenable, and that their only hope of staving off catastrophe for themselves and their children was to forgo their beloved homeland forever. Of all the peoples of Britain leaving their homes in the middle of the nineteenth century, however, it was the Highlanders who had the greatest reason, and yet the least desire, to do so.