For the next few days, until they boarded the ship that would take them to a new life across the seas, these people would be in the Smiths’ care. They would be welcomed, fed, organised into groups or ‘desks’, briefed on the routines of ship life, quizzed and scrutinised by Captain Patey and his small staff to be of sound character, medically inspected and given at least some idea of what to expect on the long journey ahead. It would inevitably be a challenging and confusing time, but the Smiths were determined to do their utmost to make it as easy and as pleasant for the passengers as possible, as well as to give Captain Patey no reason to submit an unfavourable report to London. Just a few hundred yards away, tied up on a separate wharf just out of sight behind the main building of the depot, the great ship herself sat waiting.
‘Hello, hello, welcome,’ the Smiths cheerily assured the passengers making their way cautiously down the gangway of the ferry, children—and there were many of them—in tow. They gathered by the growing pile of trunks and luggage boxes being assembled on the jetty. Mrs Smith noticed the women first, in their finest bonnets and shawls but shy and skittish, still uncertain of this unfamiliar world. They nodded demurely towards the Smiths with dark, wary eyes, offering fleeting smiles. The men too were dressed in their finest clothes, although these were often patched and threadbare. They glanced, blank-faced, at their new surroundings, watching constantly over their wives and families. The children, noted the Smiths, were strangely silent. And every one of them was thin.
Then, slowly, a sound—a murmur—started to rise from the group of several dozen as they gathered their bearings and sorted their luggage, a soft, muted sing-song unlike anything Mr and Mrs Smith had ever heard, even in the melting pot of Liverpool. The matron gasped, alarmed yet intrigued by this strange, ancient sound. It was ‘the Gaelic’, the tongue of those proud, but now blighted inhabitants of the wild and faraway Highlands of Scotland. ‘Welcome, you’re all very welcome,’ offered the Smiths more tentatively. But by the mute smiles they received, it soon became clear that large numbers of these people spoke not so much as a word of English.
The unique and tragic saga of the Highland Scots had begun decades earlier, and ended with the bleak acceptance that life as they had known it had become untenable, and that their only hope of staving off catastrophe for themselves and their children was to forgo their beloved homeland forever. Of all the peoples of Britain leaving their homes in the middle of the nineteenth century, however, it was the Highlanders who had the greatest reason, and yet the least desire, to do so.
5
The Scots
In faraway London, the British Home Secretary, Sir George Grey, had, like everyone else, heard stories of the dire plight of the Highlanders but, sceptical of rumours, requested that some person of eminence proceed there and report back first hand. The task fell to Sir John McNeill, Chairman of Scotland’s Board of Supervision, a relief organisation charged with administering the country’s rudimentary Poor Laws. McNeill, a well-connected surgeon and diplomat, toured a number of the most destitute parishes of the Highlands and islands and was appalled by what he saw. The resulting report was harsh and unsympathetic, blaming the Highlanders themselves for their predicament, accusing them of innate laziness, and harbouring an attitude ‘of expecting relief as a right’.1 Its conclusion was blunt, stating that only via emigration could the Highlanders’ complete destitution be averted. With this in mind, in September 1851, a uniquely Scottish charity was established, the Skye Emigration Society. When it became obvious that such poverty as was observed on Skye was in fact endemic throughout the entire Highlands, it assumed the name by which it was to be widely known—the Highland and Island Emigration Society.
Its aim was simple: to induce large numbers of impoverished Highlanders to emigrate, primarily to Australia, and to raise the necessary capital in order for them to do so. However, not so much as a single penny, it was made clear at the outset, would be forthcoming from the government. Operating semi-autonomously under the aegis of the Board, the Highland and Island Emigration Society would concern itself solely with the plight of the Highlanders and be given authority to offer them conditions unavailable to other emigrating Britons. Its coffers, however, would be solely reliant on the generosity of private donors. In stark terms, its co-founder and chairman, the powerful Sir Charles Trevelyan, pointed out the reason for the Society’s existence:
The attention of the benevolent British Public has long been awakened to the lamentable destitution prevailing in the Island of Skye and other overpopulated Highland and Island districts. For five years past a great part of the people of these districts has been supported out of that portion of the munificent subscription raised in the winter of 1846–47, for the relief of the Famine in Ireland and Scotland … This Fund is now exhausted, and the condition of the people remains unimproved. They cannot support themselves in the land of their fathers; and the hardy and loyal Highlander is in danger of being converted into a professional mendicant. There is need of a complete and final remedy.2
Glib references to ‘hardy and loyal’ Highlanders aside, Trevelyan himself in fact had no love for the Scots, as he likewise had none for that other great Celtic race in crisis, the Irish. During the recent Great Famine, he had distinguished himself by his slow and recalcitrant delivery of government relief to the Irish population as 90 per cent of their staple food crop, the potato, failed and millions starved to death. A fanatical believer in the sanctity of the free market, he loathed the notion of government assistance of any kind to anyone under any circumstances, and in a letter to an Irish peer went so far as to label the famine ‘an effective mechanism for reducing surplus population’.
Nevertheless, the need for the Society’s services soon outstripped all initial expectations. Luckily, it evolved into something of a charity of fashion, with no less a figure than Prince Albert, husband of the reigning sovereign, Queen Victoria, becoming its patron, and a committee of management which included the Lord Mayor of London, the Governor of the Bank of England and such prominent social reformers as the Earl of Shaftesbury and Baron Lionel de Rothschild.
Highland landowners, no doubt relishing the opportunity to rid themselves of their impoverished tenants, contributed to the fund with uncharacteristic generosity, as did more humble members of the public. A Quartermaster Sergeant Hoban of the 13th Light Infantry contributed just over £4, and Highland soldiers abroad agreed to donate a day’s pay.3 Scots already settled in places like Canada and Australia raised hundreds of pounds for the cause, and the Queen herself contributed £300, with her husband Albert, a renowned kilt-wearer and fancier of all things Scottish, gave £100 to the fund.
It remained, however, a curious charity, offering neither relief nor shelter, food nor employment. The sole reason for the Society’s existence was to deliver, in no uncertain terms, a blunt message to impoverished Highland Scots—‘Go now or starve’4—and to expedite their removal to Australia as effectively as possible.
For those Scots now setting foot on Mr and Mrs Smith’s Birkenhead jetty, their odyssey had begun with an information meeting at a local town or village, at which point the stark reality was laid before them that emigration was their best hope of avoiding destitution. Those charged to conduct such meetings were often shocked at the state of the people seated before them, as they later submitted in a report to the Society’s chairman. As Mr Thomas Fraser, the Sheriff Substitute (a local judge) of the Isle of Skye and one of the architects of the Society, commented:
At our meeting yesterday, so many of the poor intending emigrants attended, all anxious for some information as to their prospects of getting away, that my court-room could not hold them, and we had to adjourn to the parish church. Many of these people are in a state bordering on starvation; and I have seldom had a more painful duty to perform than to address them without being able to give them any distinct information on the matter, which to them in their present circumstances is one of such frightful interest.5
The R
everend James McQueen observed:
The state of the people in general is most alarming. There never has been anything like the present distress. I can hardly describe my feelings, seeing and hearing their lamentable complaints, and seeing my fellow-creatures weeping before me, when I cannot help them. May God have mercy on them! I know not what will become of them.6
To the Scots, the Society offered a one-off, never-to-be-repeated opportunity of a heavily subsidised sea passage with terms far more generous than those proffered to the Irish or even the English in the care of the Board. There was still some cost involved, though, as well as a rigorous selection process, and by no means all who applied were successful. Applicants were required to possess rudimentary literacy (though often they did not), be relatively young, be unafraid of hard work and, importantly, display no yearning whatever to return to the mother country.
As an encouragement for this last point, they were required to sell everything they owned except the several sets of clothes they were told would be needed on the voyage. They also needed letters of reference from a minister of religion or a medical doctor attesting them to be of good character and—in an age before universal documentation—that they were in fact who they claimed to be.
The Society’s preference was for able-bodied men, preferably with agricultural experience, and particularly with sheep. Single women of child-bearing age were also in demand in the female-scarce colonies. Hence shepherds, herdsmen and their wives, farm labourers and female domestic servants under the age of 45 were required to contribute just one solitary pound towards their full passage to Australia. This figure increased exponentially with age. Those between 45 and 60 were to pay £5, jumping to £11 for those between 50 and 60 years of age. The cost for children was 10 shillings each.
In reality, even these amounts were beyond many Scots, so for a large number of applicants who otherwise presented well, the full amount was loaned, to be reimbursed in instalments once they had settled in Australia—although this arrangement often fell by the wayside. The priority, it seems, was to see the dead weight of an underclass of ‘mendicant’ Highlanders removed from Britain, with the cost of doing so being a secondary consideration.
The Scots may well have been looked upon as fortunate by their fellow passengers, the English and Irish, travelling under the arrangement of the Board, as the price of emigration for them was considerably higher. As well as receiving a far less generous subsidy on their passage, they also needed to provide a non-refundable deposit with their application should they for any reason be unsuccessful or opt out of the process due to a change of mind.
All were required to supply at least two full sets of clothing, as the voyage would take them through extremes of climate none of them had experienced. For men, the list consisted of six shirts, six pairs of stockings, two pairs of shoes and two complete sets of outer garments, with a strong recommendation that several extra sets of not inexpensive woven woollen shirts also be included. Women were expected to provide six shifts, two flannel petticoats, six pairs of stockings, two pairs of shoes and two outer gowns.7 Added to this were hats, shawls and bonnets and towels, but for reasons of hygiene, bringing along one’s own bedding was prohibited. This was supplied by the Board, as was an issue of two pounds of soap per person—the first experience many had had of this highly taxed and unaffordable luxury.8
Whether they be English, Scots or Irish, wholly or partly assisted, the uprooting experience of emigration was universally life-changing, requiring almost incomprehensible stores of courage and strength. Until arriving at the embarkation depot, many had travelled no further than a few miles beyond the boundaries of their local village or parish in their entire lives.
The farewells of those departing were a long, drawn-out affair. For weeks and even months, extended rounds of visiting had commenced, each person in the village sensing the impending departure date as if it were they themselves who were leaving. Some implored them to stay, others expressed a desire—even a promise—to one day join them; all were anxious on their behalf.
On the day itself, trunks and boxes were packed and nailed shut before being loaded onto a hired carriage or wagon. Then, at the appointed hour, the emigrants would climb aboard and take a final look at those faces they had known all their lives, before surrendering to the tears and pulling away from their village forever.
If they were lucky, a short journey to a railway station or port ensued, from where a train or packet steamer would be boarded, headed—in the case of those bound for the Birkenhead depot—for Liverpool. For some of the Scots travelling from the Highlands or islands, a far longer trip lay ahead of them. In every case, a strict timetable had been provided that every emigrant was bound to follow. Lateness in presenting themselves at the depot, it was impressed upon them, was unacceptable, and could result in the forfeiting of the entire voyage.
* * * *
In the town of Tobermory, the largest settlement on the Inner Hebrides Isle of Mull, one such departure involved a woman who, like so many before her, was farewelling her little island home forever. With striking dark hair, fair complexion and high-cheeked features, she was still single in her late twenties, an age considered almost unmarriageable at the time.
To the Highland and Island Emigration Society, however, Annie Morrison was the perfect candidate: fit, educated, presentable and most importantly, of child-bearing age. There would, they assured her, be no shortage of excellent positions awaiting her in Victoria as a governess to a well-heeled family, not to mention a good many acceptable gentlemen suitors seeking a wife. Hence Annie—the sole representative of her beautiful but dying island of Mull—embraced her ageing father and stepped onto the steamer at Tobermory to begin her long journey to the other side of the world.
As with all Highlanders, the trauma of leaving was almost unbearable, but the truth, as agonising as it was, was that there was now nothing here for Annie Morrison, nor thousands like her. Over the course of her lifetime, Annie had seen Mull’s population wane from 10,000 to just 3000 as people were cleared away in favour of sheep. This had left little more than the kelp industry, which, though dirty work, had sustained much of Mull’s population.
The kelp was gathered from the sea, then burned with heather and hay in a trench covered with stones and turf. The residue white soda ash was shovelled into sacks and sent to the manufacturing centres for Britain where it was used in the making of soap, glass and gunpowder. In 1820, however, the tax on cheaper Spanish Barilla was reduced, then finally abolished altogether in 1845, at which point the local industry collapsed and the people of the islands began to dwindle away, first to the cities, then to the emigrant ships.
As the boat pulled away, Annie could barely bring herself to look back. Instead, she watched the outline of Kilchoan, the most westerly settlement on mainland Britain, and the pretty seaside village of Oban pass by as the little boat chuffed its way south. She had no expectations of what lay ahead, only a determined resolve that life would somehow be better.
* * * *
For her last few days in Britain, Annie, along with all the departing emigrants, would be well looked after under the care of Mr and Mrs Smith at their Birkenhead depot. Built to accommodate and feed up to several hundred at a time, the Board drew upon the regulations and practices of the Royal Navy not just for efficiency, but to prepare the passengers for the regimented and curtailed life they would soon be experiencing at sea. As passengers would be divided up into groups when on the ship, so too were they at the depot. Three large and separate dormitories housed the single men and the single women, and the married couples and their children. The noise of the latter in particular can only be imagined as up to 70 different families could be all sharing the same large, open quarters. The beds were arranged to replicate the layout of the berths of the ship and must have resembled a vast human shelving system. Four feet off the ground, running the entire length of the upstairs room, timber shelves were installed then divided by a board every few fee
t, creating a cavity into which mattresses of stuffed straw were installed. Each person in their respective pigeonhole slept only a few inches from their neighbour, separated by a low, thin piece of board. As it would be on the long voyage, privacy was eroded to nothing.
Immediately on the emigrants’ arrival, the shipboard routine was introduced. Every passenger was to be up by 7 a.m., with breakfast between 8 and 9 a.m., but not before beds were rolled up and the bedding area swept out. Dinner would be at 1, supper at 6 and lights out would be at 10.
The dining arrangements too were regimented, but at least the food was plentiful, with the Board insisting that three good meals a day be provided, often of a higher quality than many were accustomed to at home. To ease the potential for friction, people were divided along national and religious lines, sitting with others of a similar ilk in groups of tables marked as ‘Scots Presbyterian’, ‘Irish Roman Catholic’ and so on. Roughly fourteen adults sat to a table, or ‘mess’, to which a ‘mess captain’ was appointed by vote on a regularly rotating basis. Bearing a chit to the kitchen, the ‘captain’ would carry a large earthenware bowl filled with roasted mutton or beef back to their respective mess. Tea, sugar, bread and butter, and salt—luxuries for some—were also provided.9 It was explained that on board ship much of the cooking would need to be done by the passengers themselves, and skills and experience in the art of preparing food were established and noted.
After meals, floors, tables and surfaces would be cleaned and swept according to a strict roster. The superintendents of all the depots were anxious to prevent any hint of disease being traceable back to their institutions, so medical inspections were carried out with particular emphasis on the eradication of lice, fleas and other visible parasites. Clothing was washed and dried, but as depots themselves were thinly staffed, chores and maintenance—such as the continual whitewashing of walls and surfaces—were carried out by the passengers. It would be similar on board ship, when every person would be assigned sets of jobs and obligations, which they were expected to carry out to the best of their abilities.
Hell Ship Page 4