CHAPTER I.
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CHAPTER I.
Passage Out on the "Tyburnia"--Incidents on the Voyage--Outbreak of Smallpox--Arrival in Waitemata--Quarantined--Landing at Auckland.
The Tyburnia, a ship of 965 tons register, left Gravesend for Auckland the 31st May, 1863. She was about the third ship that sailed with what were known as Nonconformist Settlers. The passenger list numbered 366 persons, --a very motley crowd of men, women and children of all ages. Such a vessel appearing in the Auckland Harbour to-day would attract no attention, when Yankee schooners of double or treble her tonnage are taken as a matter of course. It may be worth while to recall the conditions under which settlers were brought to New Zealand a couple of generations ago. The Tyburnia had, it was said, been built as a yacht. She was a long, narrow vessel, being then technically known as a tender ship. The passage out was reported as "boisterous." In these days, when the humblest immigrant has a passage in a 10,000-ton fast steamer-- the passenger accommodation well lighted with electricity and fairly well ventilated--it is difficult to realise what it meant for a family of small means to cross the ocean over 60 years ago. The few who were fortunate enough to travel first-class occupied what was called the after deck or poop, a section of the ship which was raised above the after part of the main deck to a height of about 7ft., and furnished accommodation for the Captain and officers and a limited number of passengers. The food of these latter was certainly no better than that provided nowadays for
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third-class passengers. A few sheep, a number of crates of fowls, two or three pigs, and a cow, were carried for their use. Needless to say that mutton and poultry did not improve as time went on. The pigs did better, perhaps, but the poor cow, fed on hay, soon ceased to yield much milk. As for the rest, the less fortunate passengers, who numbered about nine-tenths of the whole, they were carried in what was euphemistically known as "'tween decks," which meant the hold of the ship immediately below the main deck. Of course there were no port holes, and what dim light there was by day came through temporary skylights fitted over the hatches and these were liable to be removed in stormy weather. At night illumination was obtained by heavy oil lanterns which, swung from the deck beams, creaked with an eerie sound in sympathy with every roll of the vessel. Such ventilation as there was came from canvas windsails. If there was no wind, the supply of fresh air was naturally a negligible quantity. Reading, or, indeed, any sort of occupation requiring light, was out of the question below deck. The sleeping accommodation consisted of small enclosures constructed of rough deal boards. In the case of a family of, say, a father and mother and three or four children under 10 years of age, the enclosure would measure 6 feet by 7 or 8 feet, most of the space being occupied by lower and upper bunks.
The suggestion of a bath would have caused a smile. The nearest approach to this luxury was to rise early, when the decks were being washed, and get a douche from the hose; a simple enough proceeding for young men, but impracticable for the aged, and for those--young or old--of the opposite sex.
Wooden ships were always more or less leaky, and it was part of the boatswain's duty to take soundings in the ship's "well" and, as often as necessary, to blow his shrill whistle and give the order to pump the ship. The amount of water discharged on these occasions was quite considerable.
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The sails were all hoisted to the tune of some familiar "chanty" or song. I recall one:--
"Oh once I had a little dog
His name was Judy Callaghan
Haul away! Haul away, Joe!"
The last line would be the signal for three concerted hauls on the halyard or rope which hoisted the sail.
These were days long prior to cold storage; even the system of preserving meat in tins was carried on in what nowadays we should regard as a primitive manner. The food consisted of salt beef and pork--both very salt and very tough--very hard brown biscuits, dried vegetables, and a periodical allowance of suet and flour, supplemented by exceedingly moderate quantities of such luxuries as tea, coffee, pepper, salt, butter, and sugar. Lime-juice must not be overlooked. It was prescribed by Board of Trade regulations as a preventive of scurvy, and its use was compulsory. Passengers had to go to the galley for their daily food allowance, and if from any cause the cook had a black mark against one of them, that person's prospects were not of the brightest.
I have mentioned the boisterous weather. People who have travelled only by present-day ocean liners, which require a gale to make them roll seriously, have little idea of the vagaries of a "tender" ship in this respect. The discomfort of a crowded vessel, loaded with no regard to the comfort of passengers, can hardly be imagined by those who have not experienced it. Many a time the unfortunate bearer of a family or mess dinner was thrown against the side of the ship, and the food sent into the scuppers.
The Captain was a somewhat excitable little man, with a full sense of his responsibility, and it was a familiar and somewhat disquieting sound to hear him at any hour of the day or night, when overtaken by a sudden squall, scream down the hatches "now, young fellows, hurry up and lend a hand to shorten sail."
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This was the time of the American Civil War. The Confederate ship Alabama was prowling the ocean in search of Northern merchantmen. She held up several vessels en route for New Zealand, and it was a matter of uncertainty, day by day, whether or not we should be met by her. Her story is so well known as to need no amplification. The marvel was that one ship should have been able to strike terror into the merchant navy of the United States. She was built a year before by Lairds, of Birkenhead, as a small warship. It was an open secret that she was intended by the Confederate States Government as a commerce destroyer, and the United States authorities called the attention of the British Government to the circumstances. After considerable red tape delay, it was decided in London to detain her at Liverpool the next day. That night, however, she slipped out of port and henceforward, under the command of Captain Semmes, a bold seaman of the old conventional type, she took the leading part in sweeping American commerce off the seas. She put into Melbourne on the 25th January, 1865, and was allowed to coal and leave again in spite of the protests of the United States Consul at that port. She was eventually sunk in the English Channel by the United States ship Kearsage. Incidentally, it may be added, that she brought England and the United States very near to war. The matter was eventually, after several years of diplomatic wrangling, referred to arbitration, and England was mulcted to the extent of $15,500,000--about million sterling--damages. It is interesting to note in passing that the United States authorities, after compensating liberally every possible claimant, had a large sum of money left on hand.
As it turned out, we met with no trouble from the famous ship, but escaping the Scylla of war we felt the full force of the Charybdis of pestilence. About the tenth day out, dark whispers ran round the ship that there was a case of small-pox on board. The unwelcome truth was soon
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known. A sergeant armourer on his way to join his regiment in New Zealand was the first victim. A feeling of dismay naturally spread throughout the ship. Nearly 400 persons cooped up like sheep in a pen, offered a very excellent chance for a tragic outbreak. It is not necessary to dwell on the horror of the situation. The details were loathsome. There was no proper hospital, and passengers slightly affected were placed over terrible cases of the confluent type. It was found impossible to segregate mild cases. By some extraordinary good fortune, the disease died down about a month before reaching Auckland. There were 35 cases in all, of which nine were of the confluent type, and only one case ended fatally. In dismissing this painful episode one could only wish that a deputation from the anti-vaccinationists could undergo such an experience at equally close quarters to see for himself the difference, in virulence, of the disease as it attacks vaccinated and un-vaccinated persons.
On the morning of the 4th September, the Tyburnia arrived off the north end of Rangitoto. It was a typical sunny, spring morning. A sudden squall came as a surprise whilst the ship was fairly close to the shore. On attempting to put her about she missed stays and for a few moments it looked as though the voyage might come to a fateful end. There was no time to be lost. Both anchors were dropped in record time, and as the ship's drift shorewards was checked a loud hurrah went up from the young men. The first mate, a dour old Scot, called out: "Aye, boys, there's plenty of time to coo-ee when ye're out of the wood." The anchors held, however, and as we looked at the rugged island, we were not impressed with the agricultural capabilities of the first land to be sighted. During the morning, Captain I. Burgess came along in the pilot cutter Falcon, and in answer to the usual questions, was informed of the outbreak. The ship was ordered to have no communication with the shore, to hoist the yellow flag, and to await orders
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from Auckland. Captain Burgess was one of the best known local men at the time, and for many years afterwards. He was a fine sailor and a genial man. He lived at the North Head, and his cutter anchored under the shelter of the hill, was a well-known craft to all old Aucklanders.
The order came next day to lay at anchor at a less exposed spot indicated by the Pilot. Tents and provisions were sent from town, and the order given to land all the young men on the island; the rest of the passengers were to remain on board. Certainly the young men had the best of it. There were some wild spirits amongst them. These enlivened the evenings by singing erotic songs of an unprintable nature. Fatigue parties cut firewood. Nearly all were men accustomed only to city life, and the experience was an entirely novel one. I have often wondered what became of all those young fellows. One heard of hardly any of them in the coming years. A very few became well-known citizens, and several still survive in more or less prominent positions in Auckland and elsewhere. The quarantine lasted a month. Fortunately there was no recrudescence of the disease.
On the 4th of October, the Tyburnia entered the harbour and anchored off the town. The only wharf in those days extended a few hundred feet beyond the site of the present Ferry Buildings. Cargo was mostly lightered ashore, so were the passengers. There were no ferry boats, or one might say local steamers of any kind. The North Shore was sparsely inhabited, and a small sailing boat was the only means of communication with the town. Early in 1864 a company with a capital of £3000 was formed, called the Waitemata Steam Ferry Company, for the purpose of building a small ferry steamer to run between the North Shore and Auckland.
Shortly afterwards a small vessel called Waitemata was built by Holmes Bros., three shipbuilders from North Shields--who had a yard at Devonport. She was 75 feet
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long and 30 h.p., built to carry a maximum of fifty passengers--a queer-looking little craft whose appearance would excite merriment nowadays. The launching, however, was quite an event, and the advent of steam communication was naturally hailed as a proof of the growing importance of the North Shore.
