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.