Taking a risk that pilot Henry Draper refused to even consider, Ferguson went straight aboard, accompanied by Dr Taylor, to meet with Boyle, Sanger and Veitch. As they listened to what these three exhausted men told them of the voyage, as well as what they could see for themselves, Ferguson realised things were even worse than he had thought. Boyle appeared spent, a man utterly at the end of his tether, Veitch not much better and Sanger still ill.
The deaths on board had now well exceeded 100, Boyle continued, with more people dying every day. More than 200 were still sick. More than a dozen bodies were lying here on the deck—some had been there for days—and their immediate burial was of critical concern. Looking around at this scene of horror, a suddenly very pale Joseph Taylor began to glean what he had so hastily signed up for. One of the most recent deaths, Boyle then said, was his very own brother, the Ticonderoga’s third mate, William Boyle, who had succumbed to the fever just hours earlier. The visiting men offered their sincerest sympathies, and from that moment, Harbour Master Ferguson took charge of the situation.
In his report penned to Governor La Trobe a few days later, which has survived, Ferguson recounts a whirlwind of activity that he instigated in the days following his arrival. His first and most urgent task was to bury the dead. Then he needed to transfer the large amount of stores from the Empire to the shore, working the two ships’ crews hard in the November sunshine. He soon realised that the little Empire’s holds were not nearly generous enough for this emergency. The Lysander, he knew, was being prepared for sail and should arrive soon, but even with what she held, more would be needed. Leaving an increasingly alarmed Dr Taylor to gather a thorough understanding of the state of illness on board, as well as to sort out the stores, Ferguson and Veitch ventured ashore to inspect the makeshift hospital under canvas and ti-tree branches, as well as the patients it contained. Here, Veitch explained, they—as had he—spent their first night off the ship, accompanied where possible by members of their families and some of the remaining nurses, such as Annie Morrison and the indefatigable Fannings; however, more properly trained medical and nursing staff were sorely needed. Ferguson wrote, ‘I landed and found about forty of the sick people in temporary tents near the lime-kiln and houses occupied by Mr Patrick Sullivan.’[3]
Sullivan would not occupy them for long. In his hand, Ferguson brandished an order for the eviction of all tenants within the proposed quarantine area, the boundaries of which would now be outlined. They would, he added, be generously compensated for the breaking of their leases, as well as the requisitioning of their dwellings. He trusted that there would be no trouble. Enlisting some of the burlier members of the crews of the Empire and the Ticonderoga, he made his authority clear to the assembled families and delivered the news. It was all here in black and white, he said, signed personally by the Lieutenant-Governor himself, that he, Charles Ferguson, Harbourmaster
holds an authority from me… to take such steps as may be found desirable in withdrawing from licensed occupation such portion of land as may be required for the purpose of the immediate formation of a quarantine station at the Heads…[4]
Then, heading off into the bush with a small pot of whitewash, Ferguson paced out what he considered to be the reasonably accurate boundary of the station. It was not by any standards a fastidious measurement, and would not have met with the approval of his colleague the Surveyor-General, Robert Hoddle, but this was far from a normal situation.
Sullivan had built a series of wattle and daub cottages, including a reasonably substantial one of three rooms and a small dairy cellar, albeit in disrepair, which lay in the middle of the proposed station. This, explained Ferguson, would now be requisitioned and occupied by the sick, for which Sullivan would be compensated £200: ‘I also arranged with Mr William Cannon who holds a lime-burner’s licence within the limits of the proposed quarantine ground to remove to the Westward of the boundary line.’[5]
The more of the area Ferguson explored, the more he believed Hunt’s initial recommendation for the site to have been a sound one. As well as bush, he reported a large area of
dry open country, a large portion of which is capable of immediate cultivation, with abundance of timber, and from the statements of the Pilots, and those who have resided there for many years, plenty of fresh water can be got at all seasons by sinking wells at a moderate depth. The anchorage is quite secure, any vessel can lay in safety within a quarter of a mile of the beach.[6]
There was also an area of several acres under cultivation with oats and potatoes, which would be of good use.
Red marker lines were laid out to delineate various other necessary aspects of the station, and by making all who were there again walk over the boundaries with him, Ferguson made sure everyone understood exactly the new parameters of their changing world. Failing to respect those parameters, he added, would lead to severe consequences. Then, satisfied with the rudimentary layout, Ferguson ordered two 30-foot timbers to be taken from the ship’s carpentry stores and brought ashore. Two holes were dug several yards apart, and the timbers were erected as flagpoles, marking out in the boldest terms the entrance of the station—directly off the beach, facing the water, so that any who approached would be in no doubt that this was no longer simply a quiet piece of beach.
The next morning, to Ferguson’s considerable relief, the great hulk of the Lysander hove into view. Three vessels of size—a small but impressive fleet—had now dropped anchor inside the previously quiet cove of Abraham’s Bosom. More stores were offloaded, then Ferguson requested that Captain Boyle assemble all his able-bodied passengers. In terms that invited neither question nor equivocation, Ferguson informed them that all joiners, carpenters, stonemasons—in fact, every man skilled in a useful trade—were as of now employed by the government at a rate of 5 shillings a day. A quarantine station needed to be built right here, he told them, and they were going to build it. Those who had not travelled with their own tools would be provided with them from the Ticonderoga’s stores, or those of the Lysander. The men, slightly dumbfounded, looked around at each other briefly, then nodded in assent. The stonemasons went ashore first, and were told to begin work on a couple of simple storehouses utilising the abundance of limestone that surrounded them. Aside from the pay, which was at a rate greater than they could expect doing similar work at home, most were happy to finally be of some use after the ghastly voyage when all they could do was wait for death to stalk yet another victim.
Apart from the practical advantage of an instant labour force, Ferguson, who had worked with men all his life at sea, on no account wanted idle and potentially disgruntled hands lying about with nothing to do but brood on their ill fortune. In his report, he dared to
respectfully suggest that the Colonial Architect send down at once a plain plan or sketch of a large airy barracks or depot, as there is an abundance of materials on the spot for its construction, which would furnish immediate work for the healthy Emigrants, who ought on no account to wander about the station in idleness.[7]
Realising that sick people could endure only so much sleeping on a beach, and that an alternative quickly needed to be found, Ferguson drew Sanger and Veitch to the rail, and indicated the Lysander. This, he told them, was to be their new hospital. Fifty new beds plus new blankets and bedding had been provided, and he suggested they begin transferring the most serious patients over to it as soon as possible. The Ticonderoga, he added, was no longer viable as a place for the sick.