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 words 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:
Sacred to the memory of Helen McRae the beloved wife of Malcolm McRae who departed this life January 3 1853 aged 41 years Her daughter Janet died November 1852 aged 11 years. Her son Malcolm died 6 November 1852 aged 2 years Her son Farquhar died 22 November 1852 aged 6 years Her son John died 22 January 1858 aged 16 years.
Charles McKay, the sexton and schoolmaster, survived; however, the effects of the voyage on his health were such that he declined to take up his position as headmaster of the prestigious Scotch College. Instead, he settled himself in Kilmore, about 40 kilometres north of Melbourne, running a tiny school for the local children, many of whom were of Highland descent. It was an area, say his family, that reminded him of his home in Sutherland. McKay died just fifteen years later, at the comparatively young age of 61.
Captain Thomas Boyle was praised effusively for his steadfast and humane command during the crisis, particularly by Lieutenant-Governor La Trobe who, ‘in appreciation of his conduct throughout the voyage and its termination’,2 granted him a double gratuity of nearly £130 instead of the agreed £64. There were, however, a number of caveats and hidden clauses, which in the end caused Boyle to lose money on the saga.
After the last of his passengers had left the ship, he found he was still carrying the large amount of luggage from the deceased that had been so poignantly observed by the passengers as it was loaded back at Point Nepean. Now Boyle found he would be charged £60 for it to be transferred up to the Immigration Barracks. With the custom being to regard a ship’s passengers as under the care of their captain until reaching port, Boyle was also forwarded the bill for the extra food supplied to them while in quarantine at Point Nepean, as it was regarded that, while they remained there, the contracted journey had not been completed. To add to the insult, he then discovered that, for this same reason, the second half of the payment per head of the passengers who had died, and which he had expected to be paid by the Colonial Land and Emigration Commission, would not be forthcoming. To perhaps soften the blow somewhat, Grimes agreed to sell off their belongings and give the proceeds to Boyle as compensation, but it is not known whether this ever transpired.
As a final blow, Boyle found that the small amount of cargo he had brought over from Britain with the intention to sell it would have to stay in the holds, as the Hobson’s Bay stevedores refused to touch it, nor have anything whatever to do with the plague ship. Bitter and broke, Boyle set sail in his empty ship from Port Phillip on 15 January 1853. On his way out of the Heads, he passed for the final time the quarantine station on the little beach. He could see that the tents he had sold on the spot to Harbour Master Ferguson were still up, but the beach otherwise looked deserted. Somewhere behind them, on a patch of buffalo grass in the sun, lay the grave of his younger brother and third mate, William, who had, like nearly 170 others, fallen to illness on board the ship. He thought of the little memorial he had arranged to be placed there in his memory, and was pleased he was resting in such a pretty spot, but knew that he was unlikely ever to visit it again.
Passing out through the Heads, the Ticonderoga set course for Akyab in Burma, her next port of call, where Boyle felt he could pick up a decent cargo. Having left Australia, never to return, from this point on, Thomas Boyle’s story is a mystery. Beyond his leaving Port Phillip for Akyab, no further record of his life and career can be found.
The Ticonderoga, however, sailed on. In July 1863, she was recorded as having been ‘sold to foreigners’, and the following year was registered in Calcutta,3 from where she continued to ply the routes of the Empire’s ‘far east’, being sold twice more, until eventually being wrecked off the southern coast of India in October, 1879. Even then, in the waning years of the Clipper age, she drew attention as one of the most beautiful ships to sail the seas.