The dark vessel came to a halt. Only then could some movement be detected on the deck—just a few figures, moving listlessly, without pace or conviction. Then from the cathead, the clack-clacking of the capstan could be heard as the anchor chain was released. The rigging, they saw, looked untidy—even haphazard. The entire vessel in fact, belying the quality of its construction, had a certain neglected appearance. Then, with a gasp, Sullivan pointed to the top of the mainmast, where a small square of yellow just caught a murmur of breeze. In a moment of horror, they recognised the dreaded ‘Yellow Jack’, the signal for other ships to stay well clear. This ship was carrying disease.
2
Birkenhead
On a summer’s morning in late July, exactly three months before the Ticonderoga dropped anchor off the little beach to the south of Melbourne, Mrs Smith stood by a small dock on the Mersey River and turned to check Mr Smith’s dress and bearing with the fastidious eye of a woman conscious of her husband’s place in the world. She needn’t have worried—William was as well turned out as ever, and as keen as any man upon whom fortune had smiled to make a good impression. Having just a few months previously been suddenly elevated from his position among the humble ranks of J.S. De Wolf & Company’s shipping clerks to become Superintendent of the Colonial Land and Emigration Commission’s most recent embarkation depot at Birkenhead, he was well aware of the opportunity he and his wife had been handed. For her own part, Ann had been appointed depot matron, and was as determined as her husband to fill her role to the letter.
Even as they stood gazing expectantly across the river, they could make out the ferry now steaming slowly towards them from the sprawl of Liverpool a kilometre or so away on the far bank. On board they knew there was a full load of men, women and even entire families—all of whom, in a few days, would undertake the most momentous and perilous journey of their lives, from which they would be unlikely ever to return. It was also by far the largest contingent of passengers they had been called upon to accommodate during their brief time running the depot, and important eyes would be observing their efforts. Besides, the brief few days these people were about to spend in their care would be the last impressions they would ever have of the Smith’s homeland.
This ferry load was not the first to arrive. Over the past few days, other emigrants had checked in from all parts of Britain. Some 140 Englishmen and women from Somerset and Cornwall had arrived by train and were already well settled, and several boatloads of Irish had also turned up, having made a rough crossing over the Irish Sea to Holyhead in open-decked packet steamers, then travelled by train to Liverpool. This ferry was rather special, though, carrying as it did the first of the 643 individuals who would comprise by far the largest single group of passengers for the voyage. These people were making the longest and saddest journey of all—from the remote and mysterious Scottish Highlands.
The depot itself was an impressive facility, comprising two main buildings, one recently converted to accommodate up to 400 emigrants, the other as a storage area for their luggage. Living and dining quarters, washing facilities, a cook house, a sick room and several offices had been installed, as had a small Church of England chapel. Anyone standing inside would have been impressed by its sweeping sense of space and grand 21-foot ceilings. Twin rows of cast-iron pillars supported a second floor, which itself boasted further 14-foot ceilings and a timbered roof. Everywhere was well illuminated, with two rows of generous skylights. Large rows of dining tables and benches had been assembled in orderly rows, each grouped according to the areas from which the various passengers had come. The lower walls were three feet thick and whitewashed.
Outside the front door was a large forecourt, which led to the dock, and close by could be found a railway turntable and track spur connected to the main line, from which every part of Britain could be reached by train. To the amazement of some, gas heating had been installed, and there was even hot and cold running water. It was undoubtedly the largest and most impressive building most of the travellers had ever seen.
Birkenhead was the fourth, last and most important of the Colonial Land and Emigration Commission’s embarkation depots, established for those leaving Britain by government-assisted passage. Others had been set up at the ports of Plymouth, Southampton and Deptford near London, but these had largely been adapted from private boarding houses and were relatively small in nature. Birkenhead was the first properly planned and truly dedicated facility.[1]
Birkenhead had, however, been built for another purpose entirely: it was originally meant to be a series of warehouses, but the buildings were never used for that purpose. Like much of the recent infrastructure along the Birkenhead side of the Mersey River, they had been constructed as part of the town’s push to carve out for itself a piece of the massive shipping trade currently passing through Liverpool—then the busiest port in Britain. The Birkenhead Dock Commissioners’ ambitions were indeed lofty. Having declared that they were ready to take on their Goliath neighbour across the water, they began, in the 1840s, to lobby heavily for dock construction rights, planned a grand renovation of the city centre and even commenced a large-scale expansion of Birkenhead’s local Wallasey Pool, a stretch of tidal water into which the local Wallasey Creek ran before emptying into the Mersey River. This modest backwater, it was proposed, was to be engineered into a large complex of inland harbours with the somewhat grandiose title ‘The Great Float’, and would be the keystone in Birkenhead’s revival.
However, it all came to nought. The hard men of Liverpool’s docking and shipping trade were never going to tolerate a rival—however nascent—directly across the river, and proceeded to throw every conceivable obstruction in the way of the ambitious men of Birkenhead—who admittedly, for their part, were doing a fine job of muddling it all up on their own. A litany of engineering failures and financial mismanagement threw the town firmly into reverse, as confirmed in the 1851 census, which revealed that Birkenhead’s population had gone backwards from around 40,000 in 1846–47 to just over 24,000 in 1851. The grand designs for the revival of the town centre were quietly shelved.
Having failed to take on the shipping trade, Birkenhead was thrown a lifeline in the form of emigration. By the late 1840s, one of Britain’s chief exports—besides textiles, machinery and the many other innovations of the Industrial Revolution—was people, and Birkenhead was set to take advantage of a human exodus.
1
K. Pescod, 2001,