By the third day at the Birkenhead emigration depot, the anticipation brewing among the hundreds of emigrants soon due to depart on the Ticonderoga was palpable. For people used to the quiet routine of rural village life, the past few days had been a whirlwind.
However, after three days of meals delivered and eaten around their individual ‘mess’ table with fourteen or so complete strangers, then being required to scour and clean their own utensils; of every morning having to roll up their bedding and sweep out their berths; of being interviewed by the imposing Captain Patey and found to be of ‘good character’; of being medically examined and found fit to travel, they were—ready or not—about to face the great journey of many weeks at sea. The average age of the emigrants was somewhere around the mid-twenties, and at this stage the impending voyage still had the qualities of a great adventure: breathlessly anticipated, but utterly unknowable.
The depot only had space for around 400 at a time, but the Ticonderoga would be carrying twice that number, so a complicated loading timetable was drawn up lasting several days as groups of passengers underwent their processing. At this stage, the democracy of the depot began to come into question. The first to be loaded were the English, all 140 of them, mainly from Somerset and Gloucestershire, who by virtue of their birth right were given the best bunks towards the relatively stable stern of the ship. Next were loaded the Scots, then finally the Irish, who crowded into the poorer quarters in the bow.
Captain Thomas Boyle was proud of his ship, as he was of his contract to carry emigrants to Australia, and the responsibility that entailed. To prepare the Ticonderoga for the longest voyage it had undertaken as well as the largest number of people it had carried, he expended considerable effort and no small expense employing a small army of ship’s carpenters to reconfigure her interior, with a view to achieving the highest possible standards of comfort and hygiene for his passengers. To this end, a number of features had been included. First, no less than twenty newly designed flushing water-closets—toilets—for both male and female passengers were installed at strategic positions on the upper deck. At a time when such innovations were only just beginning to appear in the newest London houses, this was indeed a significant advance on the traditional ship’s ‘heads’, in which people had to position themselves over a hole in a wooden board jutting out from the side of the ship suspended precariously above the water. Instead, the Ticonderoga’s modern devices used gravity-fed seawater tanks to flush away waste, which had to be manually pumped full every day. It was undoubtedly the first time anyone on board had seen anything like them. Another was the inclusion of four lead-lined bath tubs, each measuring a generous 6 feet by 2 feet. Admittedly, they could only be filled with salt water (stores of freshwater would be strictly used only for drinking and cooking), and would be used exclusively by the ship’s male population, but they were an advancement nonetheless.
Under the forecastle, Boyle had sealed off the main deck towards the bow with a solid bulkhead, beyond which were his crew’s quarters. The remainder of the previously open deck was now divided into three sections: a men’s ablution area, a central married quarters and, aft, the area for single women. This also now incorporated two new ‘hospitals’ or sick bays, the women’s situated at the rear of the single women’s quarters and the men’s adjacent to their ablution area near the bow. At equidistant points, narrow gangways led down to the lower deck. This too had been similarly renovated with another single men’s area in the bow and a larger married quarters taking up midship and the stern. The gangways linked the ship’s two main areas for married people and their families, as well as the lower men’s area with the male ablution section. There was also a new ‘teacher’s room’ for group reading and lessons, and a ‘matron’s room’ where the young women could be given their own lessons, though these were of a somewhat different nature to the men’s.
With the prevailing belief, before the advent of modern medicine, that sickness and disease were largely airborne, great care had been taken by Boyle to ensure the flow of fresh, ‘clean’ air throughout his ship. Lattice wooden bulkheads had therefore been installed rather than solid wood, as well as another innovation, wind sails.1 This basic air-conditioning system was similar to those found in mines, whereby vents on the open upper deck scooped up fresh air and distributed it throughout the ship’s large and complicated interior. In rough or stormy weather, however, when the passengers arguably needed fresh air the most, they would be disengaged.
As well as the gangways, which themselves aided ventilation, extra openings had also been fitted between the decks. One of them, opening the single women’s area to one of the married quarters below it, had steel bars bolted across it at 6-inch intervals to prevent any interaction between the two. Such was the morality of the times. Although believed to be imperative to good health at the time, this deliberate opening up of the ship’s internal passages would, later in the voyage, allow the free circulation of something far more sinister than simply fresh air.
To bring at least some light into the lower deck, Boyle had 10-inch diameter windows or scuttles cut through to illuminate the stern area, with more situated 12 feet apart right around the deck. To enhance what light there was, the ship’s entire interior had been covered in several coats of whitewash. By far the largest task undertaken by Boyle’s carpenters, however, was the fitting of the Ticonderoga’s system of wooden bunks, which needed to be constructed and installed in their hundreds. Like some vast, two-tiered filing system, they were hammered, bolted and dowelled, piece by piece, around the ship’s solid centre, whence they emanated like rows of wooden petals. New straw-stuffed mattresses were provided for each, as were new blankets. For hygiene, passengers were forbidden from bringing on board bedding of their own. These bunks, however, were small and narrow, and separated by just 3 feet from the next. This, in fact, was more space than the mere 2 feet of space between bunks as stipulated by the Passengers Act. A flimsy wooden wall protected modesty to some extent, and a thin curtain could be drawn across the foot of each bunk, but privacy on board the ship barely existed.
The Ticonderoga also exceeded the prescribed headspace between decks, as laid out in the Act that in 1852 had been amended by parliament but that had not come into effect by the time she sailed. A mere 6 feet of headspace between decks of emigrant ships due to sail through the tropics was all that was required by law, but the Ticonderoga exceeded this with a clearance of 7 feet, 10 inches in her main deck, and 6 feet, 11 inches in the lower.2
She was, however, still awfully dark. Despite Boyle’s renovations, it was simply not possible for light to penetrate the ship’s interior. Even on bright days, the lower deck in particular was a place of perpetual gloom, the strong but thick glass of the scuttles allowing for little more than a hazy, green-tinted illumination. In particular, those passengers allotted the lower bunk on the lower deck were destined to spend a large part of the voyage in a perpetual night. This is one of the reasons, it has been suggested, that no passenger diaries have survived from the Ticonderoga’s journey. Even among those literate enough, there was little light by which to write them.
Deeper into the ship, underneath her second deck, were the Ticonderoga’s holds, inside which her crew of 48 had been toiling for many days, loading the tremendous amount of stores that would be required to keep nearly 800 people alive for the next three months and more. This being virtually the longest voyage that any ship of the time was capable of undertaking—close to the farthest distance from one point on the globe to another, and with no scheduled stops along the way—provisions were chosen more for their qualities of long-term preservation than their nutrition. Although the Ticonderoga’s journey was expected to last between 80 and 90 days, provisions to last 120 days were taken on board; hence her holds needed to be big. Among the larger items she would carry would be:
• 520 barrels (being the equivalent of 48, 711 pounds) of navy bread—a type of hard, simple biscuit
• fifteen tierces of ‘India mess’ or preserved beef (‘tierce’ being an antiquated unit of measurement amounting to 42 imperial gallons), plus 47 tierces of India pork
• 50 barrels of split peas
• 53 barrels of ‘finest raw sugar’ amounting to 10,496 pounds
• 27 barrels of rice
• 120 boxes of raisins
• eight casks (580 gallons) of mustard
• five ‘puncheons’ (7418 pounds) of treacle
• nineteen casks of pickles.
Added to this list were considerable stores of tinned foods (still a relatively new and not entirely trusted innovation), such as soup and bouilli (stewed or boiled meat), raw coffee, preserved potatoes, beef suet, pepper and salt.3
On private vessels on which passengers paid their own way, the luxury of live animals could be included for fresh meat on the voyage. This was not so for the assisted emigrants of the Ticonderoga. Fresh water was also an essential item, and one notoriously difficult both to transport and preserve. The Passengers Act allowed for just over three and a half litres to be provided per passenger per day, and on the upper deck of the Ticonderoga, Captain Boyle had installed several large wooden water casks, into which he had pumped nearly 353,000 litres from the Mersey River, which he aimed to keep fresh with the addition of charcoal. Nevertheless, it would struggle to remain so on the long journey to Australia.
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 signal 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.