The reason for her sinking was never discovered, but Cole decided to fork out for the old tub to be re-floated and repaired nonetheless. But the Maitland’s ill luck continued, however, when in October 1852, the hapless Captain Dyson was at fault in a collision with another vessel, which he damaged severely, and which just happened to be the official boat of Governor La Trobe’s Chief Health Officer, Dr Thomas Hunt—who, as we have seen in his dealings with Dr Taylor, was not a man to suffer fools or incompetence lightly.
Following the accident, a furious Hunt was forced to borrow a Customs boat to carry out his work, and promptly laid a charge against Captain Dyson and Cole, her owner, who he disliked in any case, eminent social status notwithstanding. Sensing that there was no future in the Maitland as a passenger ship, Cole decided to use her simply as a tug. Few people, however, wanted to use her, and Cole started to realise he had been saddled with a lemon. Thus when the big black clipper said to be a plague ship arrived and dropped anchor in the bay, only to be summarily ignored by all, Dyson saw an opportunity for the Maitland to at last turn a profit.
Being the only vessel to have approached her, Dyson and Boyle needed only a brief conversation. Yes, Dyson would take his passengers off and deposit them up the Yarra River at Queen’s Wharf, but he would charge them handsomely for the privilege. For the passengers, there was no choice in the matter. Boyle, however, insisted that it would be done in an orderly fashion, with people being required to stay below decks until they were called up to embark on the Maitland.
As the preparations were beginning for the first of the passengers, the thunderstorm that had been threatening all morning broke suddenly and violently over the bay and a squall sprang up, rocking the ship dramatically. Then, at its height, a bolt of lightning struck one of the yardarms, setting it on fire. The accompanying thunderclap was startling enough for the people below, but with the accompanying shouts of ‘Fire!’ heard from above, pandemonium broke out below. Believing the Ticonderoga to be ablaze, passengers made a rush for the hatches, but Boyle quickly ordered them battened down to avoid a deadly panic. The flames were quickly extinguished by the crew, and Boyle managed to convince his people that they were in not, in fact, in danger, but he could see that all of them were frazzled and at the end of their wits.
The first group of passengers resumed their embarkation onto the Maitland without further incident—not that the welcome from Captain Dyson was a warm one. Neither he nor his small crew would come anywhere near these ragged people, fearing they would be instantly struck down with whatever ghastly disease they happened to have. He angrily barked at them to load on, at one stage not even waiting for a husband to gather his wife and seven-week-old infant, who were left on the ship until the next run.[1] After what they had been through, for the passengers of the Ticonderoga, this was the final ignominy.
Back and forth the Maitland putted all day of that Christmas Eve, making the 12-kilometre run from the ship to Queen’s Wharf on the Yarra River, observed by a growing crowd of onlookers. When word got around that they were from the dreaded plague ship stranded out in the bay, some quietly shuffled away, while still others gathered to gape. It was a world away from how the passengers had once envisaged their entry into Melbourne, but at least they had arrived, and could finally begin to think about the next stage of their journey and their lives.
One of the onlookers that day, despite the reputation accompanying the ship and her passengers, allowed his curiosity to prevail, and approached Captain Dyson as he was preparing to return to the ship for another load. He would like to go out and see this so-called plague ship for himself, he said, and requested a passage. Dyson looked at the man as if he were deranged, but was happy enough to accept his money. Out in the bay, not content with simply viewing the Ticonderoga from the deck of the Maitland, the curious passenger even went aboard her for a half-hour inspection while another load of people was being prepared.
Two days later, on 31 December 1852, one of the most controversial missives of the entire saga appeared in the letters to the editor pages of The Argus. Signing himself simply ‘Observer’, the anonymous gentleman penned the following:
Sir—On Friday last I had occasion to visit the Bay on business, and while going round the shipping in the Maitland, we called alongside of the Ticonderago [sic], for the purpose of bringing the passengers up to town. Being a sea-faring man and curious to know the state of the vessel which had been the scene of such unparalleled disease I went on board, and very soon ceased to be surprised at anything which had taken place on board this ill-fated vessel. The miserable squalid appearance of the passengers at once attracted my attention, and on looking down the hatchway, the smell and appearance of the between decks was so disgusting, that though accustomed to see and be on board of slave vessels, I instinctively shrank from it. I have no hesitation in expressing it as my decided opinion that the disease in this ship was mainly caused by the carelessness and inattention to cleanliness on the part of the master and his officers, and the want of ventilation. Several people were lying about the decks, apparently in the last stage of disease, and the passengers were bundled over the side without any accommodation ladder or the least regard to decency and decorum. In fact, the captain and crew seemed to look upon them as perfect nuisances, to be got rid of on any terms. The invalid women were carried over the side on men’s backs, and one poor creature was separated from his child of seven weeks old, another child of 5 years of age died on board the steamer before we reached the wharf, no arrangements were made at the wharf for the reception of the sick, and two women in a dying state, were taken away in common wharf drays.
Bad as this is, I am sorry to say it is but an every day occurrence at our wharfs, and while our government, on the principle of straining at gnats and swallowing camels, is ever ready to insist on ventilation of berths and limitations of passengers in Colonial crafts on short voyages, never scruples to tolerate Yankees, and others, and proffer facilities, when they are smart enough to secure the presence of our illustrious Governor and his sapient suite to Sunday dinners in their well provided cuddies, when of course it would display great want of taste to talk about, much less to examine, between deck berths or the miserable creatures who occupy them. What is the use of having Quarantine laws if they are not enforced and upon what principle do we for our own real or imaginary safety stop a vessel at the Heads for disease, without at the same time providing an hospital there for their cure as is done in every other civilized country—and why is this ship allowed to come and vomit her diseased and dying freight in the midst of an over-crowded city? Men despair of the Government ever doing anything effective in these matters, unless it is forced upon them by the voice of the people through our independent press.