Catterthun

By Chris Craig

The wreck of the Catterthun remains one of the most dramatic and tragic episodes in the maritime history of New South Wales. This book places the drama in the context of 1895, bringing to life the Sydney of Banjo Paterson and the Push. It follows the Catterthun’s last voyage and reconstructs the classic courtroom drama that follows. The sole surviving ship’s officer, Alfred Lanfear, is caught in a clash between civil and maritime authorities in the colony. But once the enquiries are over and blame sheeted home, there still remains the question of the gold that went down with the ship. Anxious to offset their heavy losses, the ship’s insurers engage the top divers of their day and equip them with the best equipment available in the world. They set records in a marathon salvage effort, enduring months of frustration, beset by currents, gales, sharks and mishap before they recover much of the Catterthun gold. But they did not get it all....

“I heartily applaud Chris’s book on one of New South Wales’ most tragic shipwrecks.”
Max Gleeson - leading Australian wreck diver and underwater photographer and recognised authority on NSW shipwrecks.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Chris Craig
• Release date: Jan 31, 2012
• ISBN: 9781466040472

Chris Craig

Chris Craig: Born in Lithgow, New South Wales, Australia. I grew up in the mountains before moving to Lake Macquarie and attending the University of Newcastle, studying History and Economic History. I have enjoyed a varied career including labouring in the BHP steel works, working as a concrete contractor, a student politician, a newspaper columnist and as an Industrial Officer for the Australian Journalists Association (which became the Media, Entertainment and Arts Alliance while I worked for them). I cut my teeth reading C.S. Forester, Herman Wouk, Leon Uris and Georgette Heyer. Have you read them? You should, if you haven’t yet. They are the real deal. Well researched, well written. True to the story. If you enjoy them, you’ll enjoy my work. It’s worth a read.

Book preview

Catterthun

An Australian Historical Novel

Chris Craig 2011

Smashwords Edition

1st Edition

Copyright Chris Craig 2011

ISBN 978-1-4660-4047-2.

*** ***

Smashwords Edition License Note

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Put another way; if you enjoy this book (he said in the confident expectation that you will), then please pay the freight so the author can afford to sit down and write you another. Thanks.

Other Chris Craig titles currently available:

Lithgow

Last of the Mycenaeans

Noah’s Ark

The House of Thunder Series:

The Father

The Son

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/

Grahame Marjoribanks: For his invaluable assistance researching the Newcastle Herald records on the Catterthun.

Table of Contents

Acknowledgements

Forward

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

The End

Foreword

by Max Gleeson

(return to ToC)

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

(top)

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 lines 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 hemp cables 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 lines between the ship and the dock. Well trained and efficient, the crewmen were mainly Malayan Chinese and black men from Africa.

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