Catterthun
An Australian Historical Novel
Chris Craig 2011
Smashwords Edition
1st Edition
Copyright Chris Craig 2011
ISBN 978-1-4660-4047-2.
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Other Chris Craig titles currently available: Lithgow
Coming soon:
Noah’s Ark
The House of Thunder Series:
The Father, The Son, The Fall
Acknowledgements
I would like to thank the following for their assistance in researching the Catterthun:
Max Gleeson: This novel was inspired by Max’s excellent chapter on the Catterthun in his book Shipwrecks, Storms and Seamen. It’s a great read. You can get it, together with Max’s other books and videos at http://maxgleeson.com/
Graham Marjoribanks: For his invaluable assistance researching the Newcastle Herald records on the Catterthun.
Table of Contents
Foreword
by Max Gleeson
It was October 1988 when I made my first dive to the remains of the s.s. Catterthun. I was already familiar with many aspects of her story. Scanning the nearby shoreline as I geared up for the dive, I remember thinking to myself “So this is where it happened.” I could see the lighthouse on Sugarloaf Point glistening in the morning sun. Over the bows lay the beach from which we had departed an hour or so before. It was the same place that the Catterthun had tried so desperately to reach in her last minutes.
Over 1800 shipwrecks can be found in the waters of New South Wales. Very few can equal the drama and controversy that took place on the morning of the eighth of August, 1895. The loss of the Catterthun and the salvage of her cargo place her amongst those select few wrecks that stir the imagination of anyone interested in the maritime history of Australia.
Chris Craig’s book “Catterthun” follows the facts of the story to the hilt. Having researched the ship in detail myself, names like Captain Neil Shannon, Chief Officer William Pinney and Second Officer Alfred Lanfear were just characters in black and white to me. Chris not only brings the Sydney of 1895 alive, but these men and others, with their family lives; from the greeting of the ill-fated passengers to, finally, their roles in the Catterthun’s last voyage. The ship’s crew set off from Sydney, confident in their ability to meet the challenge of a 17-day voyage to China: the dangers of the Great Barrier Reef, Torres Strait and pirates of the China Seas. But less than twelve hours after departure the ship was sacrificed with most of her crew and passengers - directly in front of a lighthouse.
In 1896, a headline from the Sydney Morning Herald read “The curse of the Catterthun”.
It was referring to the difficulty the salvage team were experiencing in their attempt to recover the ship’s lost gold. Nothing has changed in over a century. Today’s divers face the same obstacles, as well as different challenges. Over thirty kilometres from the nearest real boat ramp, subject to strong currents and wild weather, a dive on the Catterthun can be as elusive as her gold cargo was. Chris’s book captures the drama and tensions the salvage team experienced with delay after delay. Until finally, they return to Sydney and a hero’s welcome for achieving the then deepest salvage dive in the world.
I heartily applaud Chris’s book on one of New South Wales’ most tragic shipwrecks.
Max Gleeson
Max is one of Australia’s leading wreck divers and underwater photographers. He is recognised as an authority on shipwrecks on the NSW coast.
Catterthun
Chapter 1
Catterthun: Gaelic. “The Hill Fort.” It is the Celtic word for an ancient fortress - a ring of stones piled into a wall surrounding a hilltop. One such fort overlooks the county of Angus, in eastern Scotland. It is a high, windswept place. And when the winter gales push down from the North Sea, mist and cloud come low, covering the hilltop and its fort. Cold winds lash the grass and heather of the hill. The mind’s eye can see Scots warriors inside that ring, broadswords drawn, spears at the ready, torches burning, waiting for their enemy. At these times, if you listen carefully to the wind, you can hear the music of these Scots long gone: the wild beat of their drum, the skirling of their pipes. It is faint, but listen carefully - there it is. On the wind.
On the east coast of Australia, on the other side of the world, there lies another wild and beautiful place. Seal Rocks is named after two rocky outcrops pushing up from the ocean floor, breaking the surface some two kilometres out to sea: Big Seal Rock to the north and Little Seal Rock to the south. Closer to shore, Sawtooth Rocks, as their name suggests, trace a jagged line towards the headland: Sugarloaf Point. Atop the headland, perched over rugged cliffs several hundred feet in height, is the Seal Rocks Lighthouse.
Painted in thick coats of nautical white, the lighthouse stands as a beacon against the blue sky by day, and puts out a powerful beam by night, warning all who come by of the dangerous rocks below. And when the winter gales come up from the south, then giant, grey swells tower and crash across the rocks. The crash and boom of their impact is carried on the frantic wind as it tears at the structure of the lighthouse, seeking to hurl the white tower into the turmoil below. On those days, you can shelter behind the small wall surrounding the tower’s base, and look out over the wild sea. Then, if you listen carefully, you can hear that same music here. Strain your ears, and there. There it is. The wild pounding of the drum and the soaring music of the pipes. Faint, on the wind, embedded in its blasts. It is the music that runs in the veins of every true Scot, wherever in the world they meet their end.
The music of pipes and drums also floated up from the streets of Sydney on Anzac Day, 1960. Massed pipe bands were leading the march, tramping along in the shadow of tall buildings on either side. The beat and wail of their music floated down to the harbour side. Here, a woman dressed in the wide skirt and broad hat of those days spoke to a policeman.
“It is a tremendously expensive ring, officer,” she said, “and has great sentimental value as well. I’m sorry to be so much trouble.”
“The divers are here now, madam,” the policeman replied patiently. “They’ll have your ring back for you in no time at all,” he went on.
On the jetty, two police divers were making final adjustments to their goggles and tanks. Then, each taking a safety rope, they lowered themselves into the murky waters of the harbour.
An old man, a very old man, stooped and frail, watched as the divers readied themselves and entered the water. He watched the bubbles coming to the surface as the divers made their way along the edge of the jetty, methodically searching the bottom for the lost treasure.
Then one of the divers surfaced, his goggles and mask unable to hide his pleasure. In his hand he held a bright, gold ring clear of the oily water.
The show was ending. The divers climbed back onto the jetty and the woman was reunited with her ring.
“Thank you, thank you. You can’t imagine what this means to me,” she said. She made as if to embrace the diver, but pulled away, glancing at the oily, salty water still running from the diver’s black wetsuit.
“Thank you again,” she said, stepping back to protect her attire. She twiddled her fingers and spun, flaring her skirt as she left the jetty. The crowd of observers also melted away, leaving the divers to remove their equipment in peace. Only the very old man remained.
“Wondrous, all this new gear,” the old man said in a thick Scots drawl.
“A bit different than in your day, eh Pop?” the diver asked, removing his mask.
“Aye laddie. Aye,” the old man replied wistfully, “och, it was all diving helmet and dry suits back then. Mind ye, we had the best of the gear, the best tha’ money could buy.”
“You did a bit of diving did you?” the police diver asked, being polite while he removed his flippers.
“Och aye. Ye could say ah did a bit,” the old man reminisced, “a long time ago noo. I was a member of salvage team wi’ Arthur Briggs and Bill May,” he concluded with a sparkle in his eye.
“Briggs and May,” the police diver turned sharply, “that dived on the Catterthun?” The policeman looked up to the old man, a new respect in his bearing.
“The Catterthun. Aye, we dived on the Catterthun. 1895, she went down. Long time ago, noo. Long ago,” the old man replied. He looked out over the harbour and the light of times past was reflected in his eye.
He was a young man then, A boy, really. He was working, rhythmically turning the wheel that pumped air down to a diver below. They were salvaging a barge which had sunk in Sydney Harbour. He turned to watch the steamer making its way around the South Head. Its sharp, upright bow cut through the waves like an axe, sending spray to each side. Its bare, black masts raked back against the clear sky. Thick smoke dragged behind the tall, single funnel like a banner as the ship made its way into a blustery westerly wind.
“Keep at your work, laddie, never mind ship,” Arthur Briggs said to the young man. Briggs was a stocky, well-built man in his prime. His curly hair was swept back from his brow. A full, thick beard could not hide the strong features of his face. He looked and sounded every inch what he was - a Yorkshireman.
“See to your job, lad,” Briggs said again, “poor bugger down under relies on you to breathe, you know.”
But then Briggs put one foot on the mounting of the pump. Resting his hands on his hips, he watched the steamer coming past.
“The Catterthun,” Briggs said to the boy, “back from Adelaide, I’d say. She’ll be on her run to China soon enough I expect.”
Up on the bridge of the steamship, the Captain issued the orders to bring her alongside and secure her lines to the dock. At forty-four years of age, Captain Neil Shannon was also a man in his prime. He too wore a full, but well-trimmed beard. His peaked company officer’s cap was tilted back on his head as he watched his orders being carried out.
“Secure lines for’ard!” he bellowed. “Pass a line aft!” Shannon walked from one side of the bridge to the other, watching the narrowing gap between the ship and the dock on one hand and the tugs belching smoke and shoving his ship’s side on the other.
“Make fast for’ard,” he cried, “haul in aft!”
Slowly the ship moved closer to the wharf. More ropes were passed between ship and shore, secured to great bollards on the dock’s edge and hove taut as the ship slid into position. The ropes groaned as they tightened and bit on the bollards, stretching and taking the last of the way off the ship.
Then it was all over. Bringing a ship into dock was a nervous business. There was always the chance that wind, tide and the sheer stubbornness of a ship would result in plates being stove, or dock timbers smashed. But Captain Shannon had an exemplary record. In his four years in command of the Catterthun, in the employ of the Eastern and Australian Steamship Company, Shannon had no incident recorded against him. With patience, skill and judgment, he had kept his record intact on this day.
And it had taken skill. At three hundred and two feet in length, the Catterthun was a big ship for her times. Built in 1881 by the Doxford shipyards, in northern England, she was made of riveted iron plate. A low, sleek ship, she weighed in at 2,179 tons. Two ships were built that year by W. Doxford and Sons for the E & A Co., sister ships: the Catterthun and the Tannadice. Both were named after localities in County Angus, Scotland. Mr James Guthrie, the chief founder of the E&A line, was a native of Forfarshire - the County of Angus.
Captain Shannon was himself a native of Scotland. The name Shannon is normally associated with Irish origins. The Shannons of Scotland, however, take pains to point out that they are descended from the Dalriadan clans of the wild, windswept Hebrides Islands. The Scots Shannons were a sept of the powerful MacDonald clan, becoming the harpists and purveyors of oral history for their benefactors and protectors.
Young Neil Shannon had left the windblown heath and wild islands of his native land and gone to sea. He first came to Australia as a junior officer, aged twenty-four, on the maiden voyage of the E & A’s steamship Bowen, in 1875.
And here he was, twenty years later, Captain of a major vessel, mopping his brow with his handkerchief after bringing her into dock. He waved the kerchief in farewell as the tugboats took their leave. The crew was busy securing even more strong hemp ropes between the ship and the dock. Well trained and efficient, the crew were mainly Malayan Chinese and black men from Africa, aside from the ship’s officers.
“Ship secured, Captain,” reported the ship’s Chief Officer, William Pinney. Pinney was a dashing man. His dark good looks combined well with a knowing air that he gained from cramming a wealth of experience into his mere thirty years. The son of an English clergyman, Pinney had served as a midshipman in the Royal Navy before coming to Australia. Then he spent some years on the pearling grounds of the wild north-west. After joining E & A he had progressed rapidly in the company. He was well regarded and marked as a man who would soon have his own command. His quick smile could charm his superiors, as well as set many a female heart aflutter.
“Vera guid, Mr Pinney,” the Captain replied in his broad brogue, “I’ll be in the chart room when you have a minute.”
The Captain moved to the stairs that led from the wing of the bridge to the deck below. He shook the loose handrail at the top of the stairs, and tested some of the planking of the bridge with his foot before descending. On the way down he took note of the organised activity as gangplanks were sent across from the dock.
Once in the chartroom, Captain Shannon switched on the electric light. Sunlight streamed through the windows overlooking the foredeck and the lower bridge on either side, but electric light illuminated the central desk and benches in the corners. The Catterthun had not been built with electric lighting. Originally she had fuel lamps throughout, and carried a lamp trimmer as an important part of her crew. His job had been to ensure that her lamps, particularly the navigation lights, were fuelled, trimmed and burning properly throughout every night of a voyage. But the Catterthun had been the first Australian ship to be fitted with electric lighting - and a refrigerated hold, when they became available. Shannon thought of this convenience as he flicked the switch and the light came on. He folded up the chart he had been using and frowned over the log book and various returns he was obliged to complete upon entering the port.
They had arrived, not from Adelaide, as Briggs had supposed, but from the Illawarra, where they had gone to take on fuel - black coal. Now her bunkers were full, ready to head off on a journey of seventeen or eighteen days, far to the north: to China and Japan. As they were not arriving from overseas, Shannon was spared the customs inspection, immigration officials checking his crew against their records and the health declarations that he would otherwise have been required to make. And there were no passengers to disembark, or cargo to unload.
But even so, there were items of ship’s and company business requiring his attention. He dipped a pen and began to fill out and sign various documents as the other officers made their way to join him in the chart room.
“I’ve left just the one boiler wi’ steam, enough for th’ dynamo,” the engineer reported. He was also a Scot.
“Vera guid Mr Harper,” Captain Shannon replied without looking up, “ah’l be wi’ you in a’e moment.”
The other officers entered and the Captain put down his pen.
“We’ve five days till we sail again, gentlemen,” the Captain said to his officers.
“Mr Pinney, Mr Leffler,” he went on, “you will have the anchor watch for the next few days. Mr Lanfear has leave owing and I have business with the company that I must attend to.”
Pinney and Leffler, the First and Third officers of the ship, exchanged a glance. They were both young men. Leffler looked resigned, surmising that he would have the night watches.
“Now Mr Pinney,” the Captain continued, “you’ll have to take her out tomorrow. I’ve every confidence in you. You’ve done it often enough.”
“The compasses?” Pinney asked.
“Aye, that’s it,” the Captain confirmed, looking at a paper he picked up from the desk, “Captain Vine Hall, licensed compass adjuster of Bond Street, will join you in the morning. You’ll be under his command as he swings the ship. You’ll bring her back in to the Company wharf on Millers Point when it’s done. They’ll be ready for us then.”
“Aye aye sir,” Pinney said, thinking of the laborious tasks awaiting him.
“I think that is all, gentlemen,” Captain Shannon concluded, looking from one to the other. There seemed to be no questions, so the gathering began to disperse.
“I’ll be a few minutes, Alfred,” the Captain said, gathering his papers, “if ye have nae objection, I’ll travel tae ferry wi’ ye.”
“I’ll grab my kit and hold a cab for us,” Second Officer Lanfear agreed. He was a tall Berkshire man, forty years of age. He had served with Captain Shannon for three years on the Catterthun.
Shannon made his way across to the dock. He and Lanfear swung their bags into the hansom cab that Lanfear had engaged.
“North Shore ferry,” Captain Shannon said to the driver as he swung into the carriage. The cab driver nodded and flicked the reins, signalling with a guttural bark and the horse suddenly moved off. The passengers were pressed back into their seats as the carriage shot forwards, wheeling around to pass through the city, the horse urged on by the shouts and calls of the driver.
The ship’s officers looked through the windows of the carriage as it hurtled through Sydney, heading from Darling Harbour towards Dawes Point. Captain Shannon produced his handkerchief again, this time holding it over his nose against the miasma of the city. There were over twelve hundred hansom cabs working in Sydney, not to mention horse-drawn buses, goods wagons and so on. This vast equine population left its droppings along the streets. The odour of horse manure, mixed with coal smoke from steam engines on and around the harbour, was the most notable feature of the city.
“I suppose you get used to it,” Lanfear said, looking at the cosmopolitan population bustling along the footpaths, apparently oblivious to the stench.
“And you curse the trams and buses and the turmoil and the push,” Captain Shannon quoted Henry Lawson as he watched the life of Sydney’s streets sweep past the cab window.
Soon the two men had left the cab and found escape from the bustle and stink of the city, boarding the ferry to cross to the north shore. Shannon and Lanfear sat, largely without speaking, as the small steam ferry pushed its way through a short chop kicked up by the westerly wind.
“How are Ada and the children?” the Captain asked as the ferry neared the north shore.
“Fine, fine,” Lanfear answered, “the youngest, Sydney, he’s three now.”
“Three?” Shannon responded, “away wi’ ye, it’s only yesterday th’ laddie was born.”
“So it seems,” Lanfear agreed. “And how are Mrs Shannon and the family?” Lanfear ventured in reply.
“The girls, they are just fine, at last news,” the Captain replied.
“And Mrs Shannon?” Lanfear asked.
“She’s not come guid, not since the wee bairn died, ah’m afeared,” Shannon shook his head sadly. The two men sat in silence again until the ferry pulled up against the North Sydney ferry dock with a dull thump.
“This’ll be me,” Shannon said, picking up his bag. “See ye enjoy yer leave. Cheerio the noo,” he said as he moved towards the gangplank.
“Aye, Captain,” Lanfear called after him.
Captain Shannon hoisted his bag and began the long trudge up the slope of High Street, away from the jetty and the harbour. Away from the Catterthun and the sea. Fine Victorian homes lined the street, their tiled roofs and sharp gables silhouetted against the clear winter afternoon. North Sydney had become a refuge for the better off – ship’s senior officers, military officers and high ranking public servants – a refuge from the bustle and the stinks of the city on the southern side.
At last Shannon reached his gate - an opening in the sandstone retaining wall rising up from the footpath. A set of sandstone stairs led up to a door with leadlight glass sidelights. The door was slightly ajar and an eager, anxious, pale little face peeked around its edge.
“Poppa’s home!” he heard a six year old voice pipe and the door was suddenly shut. He smiled, filled with the emotions of a husband and father coming home from a sea voyage. He put his bag down and straightened his coat in a businesslike fashion, paused, and then rattled the cast iron knocker against the door. The door swung open again and two little girls, aged six and seven respectively, flew out with glad cries of “Daddy! Poppa!”
Neil Shannon dropped down on one knee and submitted to the hugs and kisses of his daughters.
“Hello, awright! Louisa, Irvina,” the father said, kissing each of his girls and receiving wet kisses in return.
“Ha’ ye bin guid?” Neil Shannon asked his daughters, examining their faces. “Vera guid?” he persisted, arching a brow with mock severity.
“We have, Daddy, we have!” Louisa, the eldest, spoke for the pair. Irvina nodded solemnly.
“Did you bring something for us?” Irvina asked, innocent avarice flashing in her eye.
“Haud on! Haud on a’e moment. A ha’e nae yet spaek to yon lassie, yer maw,” Neil Shannon said, hugging his girls to him again. He looked up at his wife, Louisa. She was standing in the shadow of the hallway, watching him with the girls. A tall, handsome woman, her hair was swept up and she wore the long sleeves and tailored skirt of the times. Her clothes were simple, yet elegant. Australian born - her father had been the Minister of the Scots Kirk in Melbourne - she had inherited the Scots taste for plain quality.
Louisa smiled as she watched her daughters and her husband reunite. It was a sight that would warm any heart. But even as she smiled, there was darkness behind her eyes, a dead blackness just below the surface.
“An’ ye?” Shannon asked, looking up to his wife. “How’s ae wi’ ye?” he persisted.
“Well enough,” Mrs Shannon said, stooping down to kiss her husband in welcome.
“That’ll do you,” she said, pulling away from him, “come away inside now. We’ve no need to put on too much of a show for the neighbours.”
Alfred Lanfear stayed on the ferry as it pulled away from the North Sydney wharf and crossed the sheltered waters to the Neutral Bay dock. Here, he also shouldered his bag and disembarked. He too began a long climb through the streets, climbing away from the harbour. Up Hayes Street he walked, turning into Manns Avenue. Climbing the stairs at its end he entered his own street: Kurraba Road. Easing the bag on his shoulder, Lanfear began the long climb to the far end of this steep street to his home: number 4. It was one of two semi-detached, two storey houses at the end of the street.
Despite the chill wind, Lanfear had a light sweat on his brow from the steep climb when he opened the gate into the tiny veranda of his home. The gate creaked and Alfred looked up as the door flew open and cries of joy greeted him. Two boys tumbled from the open door, arms outstretched to embrace him. Timothy was five and Sydney three. Alfred Lanfear laughed with pleasure as he stooped to embrace his sons. Then, if it were possible, his face beamed with even more joy as his wife, Ada, emerged from the door. She had been cooking. A smudge of flour set off the flush of her cheeks and an apron was drawn tight around her slim figure. Ada’s dark hair framed her pretty, English features. Her skin was pale but glowing and her lips full and red. She pressed herself against her husband as they kissed and his officer’s cap fell to the ground un-noticed.
Parting, leaning back, still in each other’s embrace, the couple exchanged a long look, an understanding. The family would, of course, celebrate the father’s return. It would, however, be an early night for the children. In this, their parents were both united and determined.
“Come along, boys,” Ada said with a catch, a husky note in her voice, “let’s get your father inside. He must be tired.”
“Exhausted!” Lanfear agreed and the boys, still dancing with excitement, led their parents into the comfort and warmth of number 4 Kurraba Road.
Across the bay, in High St, North Sydney, Captain Neil Shannon had changed for dinner. Not into the top hat and tails that would have been required for a formal occasion, but rather into a comfortable dinner jacket more suited to the intimacy of the family home. He looked through his windows to the west. The last of the day was disappearing in a flaring red sunset. High streamers of cloud glowed pink high in the cold, clear sky.
“I’ll see to the lamps,” Shannon said over his shoulder, stooping to light a long match in the coals of the open fireplace.
“I can do that,” Louisa said, emerging from the kitchen, “you sit down and relax before your dinner.”
“It’s nae trouble,” Shannon said, adjusting the first flame. “D’ye ken,” he went on, “we dinna dae this aboard ship nooadays - it’s just flick yon switch and that’s that.”
“The electric light you mean,” Louisa replied, “yes, it must be wonderful. Very convenient. Do you think they will bring it in for houses one day?”
“Ah dinnae ken,” Shannon said, squinting as he adjusted another flame, “each hoose wi’ its own dynamo? Or mebbe one big dynamo an’ wires to every hoose? A muckle job either way. Ah cannae see it, nae, lassie. These past fower years they had the bill in the Parliament just for electric street lights in yon city and they cannae even get a vote on it.” He shook his head thoughtfully.
“No,” Louisa agreed, “not while the Chairman of the Royal Stock Exchange is also Chairman of the Gaslight Company!”
“Auld George Cohen,” Shannon laughed, “nae, they’ll no’ get much past him! D’ye know that for the past ten years or more they’ve had an engine drive electric light for the dining room in the Stock Exchange, but Cohen willna let them put it in the members room? They say auld George has been asked many times to put up for Parliament, but he won’t hear o’ it.”
“And why would he,” Louisa reasoned, “when he already has all the say, and doesn’t have to bother with elections and such.”
Shannon pulled down the corners of his mouth in thought, nodding in agreement.
“Ye’ve hit the nail on the haid, as usual, Louisa.”
“Anyway, why do you call him “auld George,” he’s only in his fifties, I would think.”
“The likes of him are born auld, I am thinking.”
“Will you take your drink before dinner now?” his wife asked.
“Aye then, lass,” he replied, “jist the one, to remain a Scot, ye understand.”
“I’ve never seen you ‘mad wi’it,’ as my father would say,” she said, moving to the drinks cabinet, “you take your seat by the fire there and I’ll fetch the girls presently.”
“So the company arranged for the coal, then?” Shannon said, lowering himself into a comfortable leather lounge chair before the fireplace.
“Yes,” she said, handing him a small whisky, “it came just after you left.”
“And there’s enough left the noo?”
“It’ll see the winter out, I would think, yes.”
“Guid, guid,” he said, settling into the chair and opening a newspaper as he sipped his whisky.
“Tha’ was delicious,” Shannon said, leaning back from the dinner table.
“Mutton dressed as lamb,” Mrs Shannon pulled a wry face, “I’ll be speaking to that butcher.”
“Dinnae haver, it was braw, delicious. A fine welcome for a sailor home frae tha sea.”
“Girls, take your father through to the fire and say goodnight to him while I clear away the table.”
“Are ye getting enough help Louisa?” Shannon asked as he rose from the table, reaching a hand towards his wife’s shoulder, “Mrs Mackay, she still comes by?”
“Yes, she does,” Louisa answered, “but she has not been well, you know. But it is fine. I just help her with the house and it is fine, really.” She clattered the plates as she gathered them together.
“You should get more help, Louisa.”
“We have what we can afford, and I’ll thank you to leave the running of the house to me, Captain Shannon. You have your ship to look after, I have this house. Now go and say goodnight to your daughters.”
“Yes, come through to the fire, Daddy,” young Louisa said, looking up to him with large, dark eyes.
Shannon allowed himself to be led into the lounge room by his daughters. He looked back as he went - looked at the sad woman who was his wife. It was not what she said, or what she did not say. It was the way she held her shoulders, they way she stood, holding herself straight. It was in her measured steps as she carried the dishes back to the kitchen.
The children had gone to their beds and Shannon put more fuel on the fire, stoking the coals in the open D grate. He sat back in his chair and took up his newspaper again. The house was silent, save for the crackle and spit of burning coal in the fireplace and the gusty wind outside.
Louisa finished in the kitchen and came into the lounge. Taking her chair on the opposite side of the fire, she picked up her tapestry and worked in silence while her husband read.
After a time, Shannon sighed and put his paper aside, rising to see to the fire again.
“You’ll be going down to the ship tomorrow, I suppose, down to the Catterthun?” Louisa asked, looking up from her tapestry.
“No,” Shannon replied, “Pinney is taking her out to adjust the compasses.”
“You’ll be at home, then?”
“Nay, no’ all the day. I have some business wi’ the company in the morning. I’ll have to cross to the city. Ah’m no’ sure how long I’ll be,” Shannon said, settling back into his chair.
“Then, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire. I have to be up early for the girls and there’ll be your breakfast as well.”
“Louisa, I...” Shannon began, but the words died on his lips as he saw the dry finality of his wife’s expression as she rose from her seat.
“I’ve aired your room and put a warming pan in your bed,” Louisa went on, bending to kiss the top of his head as she passed, “so I’ll say goodnight. Please don’t forget the lamps.”
“Guid nicht,” Shannon said, feeling empty, “I’ll nae forget the lamps.”
She patted his shoulder and went to her separate bedroom. Neither of them had mentioned Archibald, their lost infant son. He would be two years old now, had he lived. Shannon sat in his chair. He held his newspaper, but did not read it. He stared into the coals of the fire, watching the red heat and listening to the cold wind outside.
Across Neutral Bay the wind was rattling the sash windows of the upstairs bedroom of number 4 Kurraba Road. Albert and Ada Lanfear did not mind in the least, however. The noise of the buffeting wind made them feel even more warm and cosy beneath their soft, enveloping bedding. They heard it and knew that it hid the sounds of their own passion.
Chapter 2
A cold westerly wind was still blowing when Captain Neil Shannon set out from the North Sydney wharf, catching the ferry across to the city. He stood in the bows of the small craft, enjoying the brisk wind on his face and the feel of the hull bumping into the sharp chop of the harbour. It was from here that he saw his own ship, the Catterthun, steam past. As had been arranged, the ship, under the command of Captain Vine Hall and First Officer Pinney, was steaming out to have her compass adjusted - a task undertaken regularly in these days of iron ships and electric currents.
Shannon watched his ship pass with a mixture of emotions. On the one hand he felt pride - pride in her smart appearance. Launched in 1881, she was now fourteen years old - old for an iron ship. But she had been meticulously maintained. And she had been overhauled and modernised. Her sharp bow and sleek lines made an impressive sight as she cut across the waters of the harbour. The ship’s masts raked backwards, dark against the clear blue sky. The masts were mainly used as derricks or cranes for handling cargo nowadays, but she still carried sails that could be raised to assist the steam engine should a favourable wind arrive. No, she was not a new ship, but thanks to the diligence of her officers and crew, still a smart one.
As well as pride in his command, Shannon also felt the inevitable anxiety of a Captain separated from his ship. He had the utmost confidence in Captain Vine Hall and the ship’s officers and crew. But the coastal waters of Australia were littered with the wrecks of ships which had set sail with equally justified confidence. You just never knew, and a ship’s Captain was a man on tenterhooks until reunited with his vessel.
Shannon watched the Catterthun sail past with this mixture of pride and anxiety, turning subtly in his position to keep her in view. He lost sight of her as the ferry continued on its course, however. The Catterthun disappeared behind the ferry’s upper works. He gave some thought to following her to that side of the ferry, but was embarrassed at the thought that other passengers might guess he was fretting over his ship. So he cleared his throat and dug his hands deep into his coat pockets against the wind, turning his attention to an inspection of the approaching city.
Sydney was a sprawl of grey three and four storey buildings. With this wind blowing, Shannon hoped that the usual miasma of the city - the stench of horse droppings and coal smoke - would be easier to bear. Already crowds of people could be seen bustling along the streets between the buildings, seemingly oblivious to each other. They seemed oblivious to everything, Shannon thought, except the horse drawn cabs that dashed around corners and rattled at high speed through the nervous crowds, threatening to trample them down.
Neil Shannon was still thinking about the city and its inhabitants when he was surprised by the bump of the ferry against its wharf. Stout ropes were passed around bollards and the passengers began to swarm onto the wharf, joining the throngs in the streets, bumping into each other and keeping an eye out for the menace of Sydney cabs.
Shannon set out from the wharf, shaking his head in answer to the invitation of the cabmen waiting. He was going to the offices of Gibbs Bright & Co; Managing Agents for the Eastern and Australia Line, the owners of the Catterthun and Shannon’s employers. The offices of Gibbs Bright & Co were to be found at 37 Pitt Street, only a short walk around the waterfront from Dawes Point, through Circular Quay.
As Captain Shannon walked past the wharves and storehouses, he pondered the chain of events which had led to the coalition of trading giants and wealth which now controlled his destiny and that of his ship.
The Eastern and Australian Line had been set up in the 1873 by four wealthy men in response to the unhappiness of Queenslanders. Until then, trade and mail delivery services to Australia had been dominated by the mighty Pacific and Orient Line. The P & O Line ran its service along routes established long ago, in the days of sail. Then the “Roaring Forties” dictated that ships coming from Britain to Australia, blown by the infamous trade winds, made landfall first at Perth, then Adelaide, Melbourne, Sydney and last of all, Brisbane. This sequence of landfalls meant that the inhabitants of the new and bustling State of Queensland were always last to receive goods, news and mail - up to a month behind the other states. This did not sit well with the Queenslanders.
Consequently, the Queensland Government offered a subsidy of £20,000 to establish an alternative route from Singapore, through the Indonesian archipelago, around the top of Australia, rounding Cape York and arriving first at the port of Brisbane, establishing a sequence of landfalls more reflective of the Queenslanders’ view of the world.
In answer to this invitation, the Eastern and Australian Line was formed, headed up by James Guthrie, a wealthy Scot who made his fortune in maritime trade and was now based in London. Other partners were based in Singapore and Sydney - each bringing the skills and location to manage the company’s affairs in those ports.
The mail contract with the Queensland Government did not last. Even with the £20,000 subsidy, the required route and timetable proved too hazardous. Ships were lost and the service ran at a loss. In 1880 the E&A Line passed on the renewal of the contract, preferring to concentrate their efforts on the growing trade between Australia, China and Japan. The Eastern & Australian Line became the “Lion of the China Sea.” It carried Chinese passengers from the Orient to Australia - to the goldfields of NSW and Victoria. Their ships carried cargoes of Chinese and Japanese goods to the markets of the growing Australian economy. On return journeys, E & A ships carried Australian exports - beef, lamb and wool, obviously. Less well known was another Australian export - a by-product of the horse-drawn society burgeoning in the Great Southern Land: the body parts of deceased horses, particularly their hooves, tendons and legs.
Millions of horses lived and worked in Australia. They pulled cabs, trams, buses, and carts of all descriptions. They were ridden for work and pleasure. Between five and ten percent of this multitude of horses would die each year. And the Orient was hungry for the legs, feet and tendons of these unfortunate beasts. Glue for woodwork and gelatin for food was sought after throughout the region. Glue the erection of paper houses was required in Japan.
Captain Shannon smiled grimly as he stepped around a steaming pile of fresh horse droppings. The pile was being raked from the road by a “block boy,” or “sparrow starver” - one of the men employed by the City Council to do daily battle with the swarms of horses covering the streets with faeces; gathering it up before the sparrows could pick seeds from the noisome mass. The Captain smiled, however, as he recalled that one of the cargoes his ship was scheduled to load for the coming trip were some tons of horse shanks, tendons and hooves. The producers of this stinking pile, he thought, were laying down their lives to keep him employed and a roof over Mrs Shannon and their daughters. He should be grateful, he mused, and putting up with a bit of stink for the duration of his visit to the city did not seem such a bad exchange.
As Captain Shannon avoided the growing pile, he looked up to his right. Another gang of men were busy maintaining the wooden street surface on a steep pinch of road leading up, away from the harbour. They were sanding the surface: roughing it up so that it did not become too slippery for equine and human traffic.
Shannon watched this process with interest as he headed towards the beginning of Pitt Street. The office building of Gibbs Bright & Co was not far from the harbour, at number 37. Thinking of the name “Gibbs Bright” put Shannon’s mind back on the track of the history of the Company that employed him. The original Australian partner in the E & A Line had been James Henderson. After his death in 1875, however, management of the company’s affairs in Sydney passed to Bright Bros. In 1881, the Bright Bros company was taken over by the empire of another adventurer and pioneer in maritime trade. Anthony Gibbs had been the son of a wealthy London doctor. Convinced that his future lay in becoming a trader, he promptly sent both himself and his father bankrupt on his first attempt. Driven by a desire to both vindicate himself and repay his creditors, Gibbs cast further and further afield before finding a niche in a specific but growing trade with South America. Guano, solidified bird droppings. Vast quantities of it were being mined in South America, where the bird droppings were apparently both plentiful and efficacious. It was being dug up and shipped to Europe where farmers were clamouring for more and better fertilisers.
The guano trade was one of high volumes and low per unit returns - a bulk commodity, if you like. Consequently, it attracted older ships, nearing the end of their working lives. It also involved chronic overloading of these ageing vessels as their owners tried to squeeze a profit out of each voyage. Tragically, these circumstances inevitably led to the regular loss of ships and lives at sea, together with their cargo. Ironically, this in turn led to higher insurance costs and the loss of assets, which in turn further increased costs and lowered profit margins.
Gibbs made his name and fortune by inventing a gauge that was painted on the outside of each ship’s hull, showing the degree to which the ship could be safely loaded. It would later be widely known as the “Plimsoll Line.” In this, its first application, Gibbs reduced ship losses on the guano route to virtually nil, increased the profitability of the trade and made his fortune.
Gibbs was a restless man, however. Not content to sit on his guano fortune, he came to Australia seeking opportunities opened up by the gold rushes and the growth of the young country. He had established himself as a successful trader and his sons had set up the shipping house Gibbs Bright & Co. It was this entity which took over management of the E & A Line’s Australian affairs when Anthony Gibbs & Co took a significant shareholding in the E & A company.
Captain Neil Shannon was smiling to himself. Smiling at the notion that both the great arms of the business that employed him were ultimately based on dung one way or the other - horse dung, bird dung. Ironic, it turned out to be. At that moment he was distracted, watching a team of men taking up and repairing a section of wooden paving blocks as he crossed Pitt Street. Not watching where he was going, Shannon put his foot firmly into the middle of a fresh, steaming hatful of droppings.
Feeling the moist, sticky substance under his foot, Shannon looked down in horror. Realizing his error, he limped to the sidewalk, pulling a face as he attempted to scrape the faeces from his boot against the concrete gutter.
“Wad, jer run aground did yer, Admiral,” a nasal voice twanged, accompanied by raucous laughter.
“Hope yer watch where yer goin’ better when yer steerin’ yer ship, mate,” another voice joined in the hilarity.
Shannon looked up from his scraping foot to see a gang of half a dozen men walking past on the side walk. They were all small, thin, wiry fellows, with hard, beady eyes. Their eyes were dancing with amusement at the moment. But they had not lost the quick movements, the intensity that came from simultaneously being on the watch for threats and opportunities. They wore hats tilted back jauntily on their heads. The bright bandannas around their necks, short black coats and luridly decorated boots marked them as members of the Rocks Push - a criminal gang that regularly fought members of other gangs - the Straw Hat Push, the Glebe Push and the Gibb Street Mob, for instance - for control of criminal activity in the city.
They did not regard Shannon as prey at the moment, however, and so were content to move on, enjoying his discomfort at their ridicule. The Captain, for his part, coloured under the lash of harsh laughter at his expense. He completed the task of removing the dung from his shoe with as much dignity as he could muster. Satisfied with his efforts, with a final look after the hooligans, he turned and strode towards number 37 - and cannoned straight into a man standing on the footpath holding a notebook and pencil. At least he was holding the notebook until Shannon crashed into him and knocked it from his hand.
“Ah’m dreadfully sorry,” Shannon said, flustered, and bent down to retrieve the dropped notebook. He grunted with shock as he cracked his head on that of the other man who had also bent down to retrieve the book.
“Ah’m terribly sorry, sir,” Shannon repeated himself, standing erect again after both men retrieved their hats and the book.
“Not at all, sir,” the other man replied in a thick American accent. “Ah should have been watching where you were going,” he said with a smile.
“No, no,” Shannon insisted, handing the man his book, “my fault entirely. I was distracted by those fellows. I’m sorry.”
“I was distracted myself, watching that work over there,” the American said, “I was just making some notes on what they are doing.”
“You’re with the Council?” Shannon enquired.
“No, no, ah’m an American,” the man replied. “George W. Bell, at your service,” the man continued, holding out his hand.
“Shannon, Captain Neil Shannon. Pleased to make your acquaintance, sir.”
“Shannon, that’s Irish, I guess.”
“No, Scots, actually. My people come from the Hebrides, you see. Oh, never mind. I live here in Sydney, now. So you are interested in our streets?”
“I certainly am, sir,” the American replied with warm enthusiasm, “your wooden paving is world class, you know.”
“There’s a lot of it now, I suppose. It’s been used for a while now. I remember they started it about five or six years after I came out,” Shannon calculated.
“Well,” Bell said, “they started fourteen years ago - and now they have fourteen miles of wooden paved roads in the city. Say, that’s a mile a year. And more now than any other city in the world, with the exception of my own capital, Washington DC, of course.”
“Washington has more?”
“Oh, yes,” said Bell, “but your people have solved some problems here, you know, which makes your streets actually better, in some ways, better than ours.”
“Really?” Shannon was impressed, “they use iron bark timber here, I believe.”
“Oh, no,” Bell laughed politely, “that is a common misconception. They used to, at the start. But it proved too hard. No, now they are using blue gum, I believe, and some other varieties. But it’s the way they lay them, you see.”
“Not really,” Shannon admitted. The two men looked across the roadway to where the workmen were laying fresh blocks into the section under repair. The blocks of wood were roughly the size and shape of house bricks and they were laying them in a brickwork pattern, tapping each brick into place as it was laid.
“You see how they are laying them hard up against each other,” Bell pointed out, “they leave no space in the joints. And along the side of the street here, they leave a gap to be filled with puddled clay to allow for movement; expansion and so on. Fascinating. I’m writing a book about it, you see.”
“A book? About Sydney streets?”
“Indeed. I’m advocating the use of your Australian techniques in our American cities. They expect to get twenty five years or more out of these streets before they need replacing - which is far more than we have been achieving back home.”
“Fascinating,” Shannon said, looking at the street with renewed appreciation. “I just noticed, actually,” he continued, “that they were sanding the street just around the corner on the way here. Does that reduce the life of the street at all?”
“Not much, no. Sanding the street, you say. For better traction, you see. Could you tell me where that was? I have been waiting for a chance to observe that in progress and make some notes. Where did you say it was?” Bell was almost hopping with anticipation.
“Left at the bottom of the street here, then, I think the second on the left, going up the hill,” Shannon replied pointing.
“Oh, excellent. Well, thank you sir, for pointing that out. I must catch them while it is still in progress. I hope you will not be offended if I take my leave now.”
“No, not at all,” Shannon said with a slight bow of the head, “it has been a pleasure to meet you.”
“The pleasure was all mine, I assure you,” Bell said, returning the slight bow and then making haste down Pitt Street, hurrying to catch the sanders at work.
Shannon watched after the American as he dodged through the pedestrian traffic and dashed between the speeding cabs to cross the street. He thought the American seemed a nice enough fellow and hoped that he was not trampled down in his haste to see the street sanding.
Seeing Bell safely out of sight, Captain Shannon turned and completed the last part of his journey along the foot path to number 37 Pitt Street. It was a tall, four-storey sandstone edifice. A copper-clad, curved awning protruded over the footpath and sandstone arches housed lead light windows on each floor. Shannon entered, climbing the stairs to the third floor - to the offices occupied by Captain Green, the Supervising Captain of the Eastern & Australian Line. A young man was busy at a desk in the outer office. He looked up, squinting through his glasses as Shannon arrived.
“Mr Pearson,” Captain Shannon spoke first, “I’m here to see Captain Green.”
“Oh, yes, Captain Shannon. Of course,” the young man said, rising from the desk, “Captain Green is expecting you, please go in.”
Shannon nodded his thanks to the younger man and, crossing the office, knocked quietly on the door marked “Capt. Green.”
“Come!” a voice growled from within. Shannon squared his shoulders and opened the door.
“Captain Shannon,” the occupant of the office growled, not unpleasantly, as he advanced from behind his desk, holding out his hand in greeting. He was a tall, powerfully built man, with dark eyes and hair with flecks of grey. Despite being desk bound, without a ship of his own, he wore an officer’s uniform and a gold encrusted officer’s cap.
“Captain Green,” Shannon said returning the greeting as they shook hands.
“Take a seat, Shannon,” Captain Green invited, gesturing to the comfortable chairs to one side of the office.
Shannon looked around him. It was a large office, he supposed, for a crowded city. But he never came in here without feeling cramped, boxed in. It did not compare well with the open space and fresh air of the bridge of a ship at sea. He thought of the words of A.B. Paterson that he had recently read:
“I am sitting in my dingy little office, where a stingy
Ray of sunlight struggles feebly down between the houses tall,
And the foetid air and gritty of the dusty, dirty city
Through the open window floating, spreads its foulness over all.”
“Well how can I help you?” Captain Green asked genially as they took their seats.
“It’s about the bridge, sir, on the Catterthun,” Shannon began, “I understand my request to have it replaced has been refused.”
“Not refused, Shannon, just queried,” Green growled soothingly.
“Queried? May I ask by whom?”
“By Mr Guthrie, of course.”
“Auld Guthrie,” Shannon replied, feeling his hackles rise. “Well you can tell Mr Guthrie,” Shannon went on, “that ah am a Scotsman just as he is. And ah know the value of a penny just as well as he does. But ah won’t be responsible if he sends me out in a ship with its bridge held on by lashings! Fourteen years of salt and water have eaten the rivets away and the timbers have seen too much sun. There’s nothing more can be done but replace it.”
“I appreciate your concern, Shannon,” Green countered, holding a hand up as if to defend himself, “but you must understand that, with the down turn in commerce and trade since the start of this decade, we have to examine every expense carefully.”
“Ah can assure you that ah am well aware of the downturn in business that we have endured, Captain Green, although ah do observe that things seem to be improving. But with all due respect, sir, that is beside the point. The structure is rotten. Paint and rope can do nae more! Ah cannae be responsible if the bridge falls on a passenger or an officer is lost when it is washed away!”
“Very well, Shannon, don’t get overexcited. You have made your point.”
“But since the repairs have been queried,” Shannon went on, “there will nae be time to put arrangements in hand before we sail, and it is in nae fit state to put to sea.”
“No, no,” Green spoke in a soothing tone, “the arrangements are all in place. Mr Guthrie just wanted me to check that they were absolutely necessary before we went ahead.”
“Well ah can assure you they are. Guthrie should know a Scotsman would not suggest them otherwise.”
“I had a feeling that was the case,” Captain Green said with a smile. “The Catterthun is out, swinging her compass today?” Green asked as he rose from his seat.
“Yes, Captain Vine Hall has her.”
“Very well,” Green said, opening the office door. “George,” he said, addressing the young man in the outer office, “send a message over to the dockyards will you. Tell them to send their crew to replace the bridge on the Catterthun as arranged. She’s swinging her compass today, so we’re not sure what time she’ll be back this afternoon. Tell them to start first thing in the morning.”
Chapter 3
Captain Vine Hall, of Bond Street, had come aboard the Catterthun and First Officer Pinney bellowed the orders necessary to cast off from the wharf and put out to sea. As Pinney shouted his orders, he put a hand to the side of his head. His pained expression and pale visage showed that he was paying the price for a night of mild debauchery in the fleshpots of Sydney. Captain Vine, a mariner of vast experience, smiled to himself as he observed the younger man’s discomfort.
“Steady as she goes, Mr Pinney,” Captain Vine Hall said as the ship ploughed past the small North Sydney Ferry and set a course to pass between the Heads at the Harbour mouth.
Once the ship was several nautical miles offshore she was brought to a halt and careful bearings taken on landmarks. This process precisely established the ship’s position and provided the basis for comparing the performance of the ship’s compass against an established heading. For example: if the position of the ship is calculated to be due east of a particular point, and the centre line of the ship is exactly at 90 degrees to that bearing, then the ship’s compass should be pointing directly north, along the axis of the ship’s hull.