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  On 20 August 1857, Dunbar was south of Botany Bay and closing on Sydney from a considerable distance offshore. Conditions were appalling – a gale was blowing and the large, rolling swells were powerful and breaking at their crests – so Green had his ship running north at a slow pace with little sail set. Heavy rain squalls accompanied the gale, so for much of the time visibility was limited to less than a nautical mile – a fact that caused Green to maintain a course well offshore: in those conditions, sea room translated to safety.

  Many on deck peered through the murk in the hope of sighting land, and around sundown they received their wish: the rain cleared long enough for the coastline surrounding the entrance to Botany Bay – 10 nautical miles to the south of the entrance to Sydney’s Port Jackson – to be identified a considerable distance to leeward off the port bow.

  The captain was then comfortable with the ship’s progress, even though Dunbar’s approach to Port Jackson would be made in darkness. However, his experience told him that the loom coming from Macquarie Lighthouse – an 85-foot-high cylindrical tower, 1.3 nautical miles south of the harbour’s southern entrance – would provide the bearings needed to navigate a safe passage into the port, if the weather was clear enough.

  The lighthouse’s giant mirrors and lenses, reflecting the flame of a huge oil lamp, and a mechanism driven by a falling weight combined to send a beam of light sweeping across the ocean every ninety seconds. But in thick cloud and heavy rain, when visibility was reduced to a few hundred yards – as was the case on this night – the exact location of the light often could not be pinpointed. Still, the entrance to the harbour was deep and 1 nautical mile wide, so even an approximation of the location of the light should suffice.

  However, Green’s greatest problem was that he would get only one chance to enter the harbour safely. This was because once he called for the helmsman to change course hard to port, Dunbar would be sailing downwind towards a lee shore. Once committed, there was no turning back . . .

  *

  The following morning – Friday 21 August – the steamer Grafton entered Port Jackson, having battled her way south through the gale, on a 300-nautical-mile passage from Yamba at the entrance to the Clarence River. On docking in Sydney Cove, the ship’s master, Captain Wiseman, advised authorities that, when entering the harbour, he and his crew had observed a considerable amount of wreckage floating near Sydney Heads and inside the port.

  At the same time, the waterfront was abuzz with news from riders who had rushed into town on horseback: many bodies had been found washed onto beaches and rocky headlands in Middle Harbour, immediately adjacent to the port’s entrance. Soon afterwards, equally alarming information arrived from Watson’s Bay, just inside the port at South Head: articles consistent with a shipwreck, including beds and bundles of clothing, had been washed up onto the beach there.

  Consternation and speculation ran rife: had there been a shipwreck near the harbour entrance? If so, what ship might it be?

  The flotsam discovered at Watson’s Bay indicated that the wreckage had come from an immigrant ship. So, as soon as practicable, the steamer Washington was dispatched from Sydney Cove to investigate.

  One mile from the harbour entrance, Washington found herself amid a vast field of debris that had obviously been washed into the harbour on the flood tide. But any hope of getting outside the heads to locate the source was thwarted by the conditions, which were still extremely rough. Instead, Washington was guided into Watson’s Bay, where a party of men was put ashore. They were directed to climb to the clifftop on the ocean side of the narrow, rocky peninsula – the area known as the Gap – to see if there was any sign of a shipwreck.

  This was how the Empire newspaper reported their shocking find on 22 August:

  On reaching the Gap, a horrible scene presented itself: the sea was rolling in, mountains high, dashing on the rocks fragments of wreck, large and small, and bodies of men, women, and children, nearly all in a state of nudity . . . A considerable portion of the wreck had been washed into crevices in the rocks, much of which remained high and dry . . . Upwards of twenty human bodies were counted under the Gap – the waves dashing them against the rocks and taking them back in their recoil.

  The seas were so powerful and the destruction of the ship so complete that there was no immediate way of discovering her identity. She might be any one of six or more vessels due to arrive in Sydney from England, or from another Australian port. Those sailing from England were always at the mercy of the winds – they could drift through the doldrums for up to two weeks – so there was no way of estimating with any accuracy when they might arrive at their destination. Such a ‘guesstimate’ could end up being out by a month or more.

  Because of the extreme conditions, the search for clues was concentrated inside the harbour – particularly in Middle Harbour, where wind, wave and tidal action had caused the greatest number of bodies and the majority of the debris to accumulate. The first clue relating to the ship’s identity came with the recovery of a small piece of hull planking from a lifeboat: it had the word ‘London’ painted on it in white letters. An increasing number of small boats joined the search, which continued throughout the day.

  By evening, Port Jackson’s superintendent of pilots, Mr Pockley, was in a position to make an official announcement: a mailbag had washed ashore in Middle Harbour carrying the inscription ‘No. 2, per Dunbar, Plymouth, May 29’, and a cask of tripe, also recovered, was marked ‘Ship’s stores – Dunbar’.

  Never in its short history had the colony experienced such a tragedy on its own doorstep. It appeared at that stage, according to the Empire report, that all 122 ‘unhappy beings were swept into eternity with scarcely a moment’s warning’. With many of the sixty-three passengers being ‘old colonists, or relatives of persons residing in the colony’, hundreds of residents made the pilgrimage to South Head the following day to pay their respects and see the little that remained of the 202-foot timber ship.

  But that afternoon, amid what was a sombre scene, there were shouts of excitement: one of the sightseers at the Gap thought he’d seen movement on a rock near the water’s edge more than 200 feet below. He concentrated on the spot for a short time, then bellowed for all to hear that he could see someone waving an object far below. However, that person, be they man or woman, was obviously in a location from which there was no immediate escape: the shoreline was too rugged and the cliff-face too sheer for whoever it was to reach safety.

  Frantic action followed in a bid to organise a land-based rescue attempt. Before long, lengths of rope arrived at the clifftop, and soon a brave soul volunteered to be lowered to the spot where the survivor clung to the rock.

  Amazingly, thirty hours after Dunbar was wrecked, a dazed, cold and hungry twenty year old able seaman, James Johnson, was hauled up the cliff to safety, along with his rescuer. Johnson would be recognised as the sole survivor of the Dunbar tragedy.

  However, despite the incredible circumstances surrounding his survival and subsequent rescue, he could enjoy no rest. As the only eyewitness, he was required to attend the investigation into the loss of the ship, which was scheduled for the following day. The reason for such haste was that the thirteen men who had been empanelled as the jury for the inquest were required to view all recovered bodies before they could be released for burial.

  When it was Johnson’s turn to address the panel, he gave a detailed account of what had occurred on board Dunbar prior to the disaster, and the harrowing story of what happened after the ship ploughed into the cliff.

  Johnson told the inquest that Dunbar had been on a starboard tack, between 10 and 12 miles offshore and sailing parallel to the New South Wales coast. A strong wind had been blowing from the north-east. He explained that ‘the weather was squally, accompanied by rain’, and from the time Botany Bay was sighted, both the captain and the chief officer were on deck.

  Once abeam of Botany Bay, Captain Green had called for sail to be considerably shortened:<
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  There were three reefs in the main topsail, and the fore-topsail was close-reefed; the mizzen topsail was stowed; the spanker was brailed up; we took the second jib in, and also the maintopmast staysail . . .

  Soon after darkness fell, the ‘Sydney lighthouse’ had been seen, and at this point, Johnson – who, despite his young age, already had eleven years under sail – had started to become concerned:

  The vessel was then laying her course about north-east and by north; she had not plenty of room for she was making too much lee-way; I know she was making leeway, and I believe it was because she had not enough of sail upon her . . . at the time it was raining hard; the light at the lighthouse was seen only at intervals; but when seen it was distinctly seen; it was a revolving light I am sure.

  When yet another rain squall cleared, Macquarie Lighthouse had been sighted just aft of abeam, and at that time the captain had given orders for the ship to be ‘squared away’ towards the coast, and what he believed to be the entrance to Port Jackson. At the same time, he had called for the foresail to be hauled up. Johnson stated, ‘The ship was then kept away before the wind; the light was distinctly visible but only at times. To the best of my belief, when the word was given to square the yards, the light had just previously been seen’.

  He described the conditions as ‘blowing very fresh’, and went on to add that an able seaman and the ship’s second and third mates had been sent to a position on top of the forecastle, from which they could keep a lookout ahead. It is obvious that at this stage Captain Green had believed Dunbar was holding a course towards North Head, for he had called to the lookouts: ‘Can you see anything of the North Head?’ to which they had responded, ‘No.’ Here it can be stated with almost complete certainty that Captain Green had confused the distinct dip he could see in the tops of the cliffs – which was the Gap – with the harbour entrance.

  Within minutes, fear had filled the air: the second mate had shouted, ‘Breakers ahead’, so the captain, believing the ship was being steered towards North Head, had called for Dunbar to be turned to port. From there he had expected to continue on a safe course into Port Jackson.

  Instead, the ship had been aiming directly for the shoreline.

  Still confident in his judgment, Captain Green had called for the yards to be trimmed to suit the change in wind angle. Almost simultaneously, though, as Johnson told the inquiry, there had been a second alert to imminent danger:

  We were hauling in the port braces when the captain told us to haul the yards round; when he told us to haul on the port braces, we heard the cry of ‘Breakers ahead’; he then called out, ‘Brace the yards sharp up’; the order was quickly obeyed. There were 13 able seamen in each watch; there was no want of hands to work the ship; we could see the light at this time; the light was right over us; a few minutes after we hauled the yards round; when the captain saw the light, he did not give orders to alter the position of the yards; and about 2 minutes afterwards we bumped upon the rocks; the ship went broadside on to the rocks.

  The impact was far more than a ‘bump’. Dunbar had smashed into the base of a towering sandstone cliff on South Head, just a few hundred yards from the southern entrance to Port Jackson.

  Within minutes, the ship had been overwhelmed by huge seas, each one pounding Dunbar with a force like that of Thor’s giant hammer. ‘Passengers had come from between decks and were running about the main deck imploring mercy and uttering piercing and heart-rending cries for succour,’ Johnson told the jury. ‘The captain was standing upon the poop, cool and collected; I could hear no orders given after the ship struck.’

  The initial impact had been so powerful that all three topmasts had broken and toppled over the side, and the first wave that burst over the ship had wrecked the lifeboats. The hull had begun breaking up within five minutes of the grounding.

  Johnson had no recollection of how he had escaped the wreck and found himself in a relatively safe situation atop a giant boulder. He told the inquiry how he had climbed onto the windward side of the ship at the mizzen chains – the area where the mizzenmast’s side stays were attached to the deck – and how he had seen a steward fire a blue distress flare into the night sky (which obviously went unseen).

  At that time, Dunbar’s stern was being pounded to pieces, so Johnson had fled forward to the main chains, then eventually the fore-chains near the bow, where he had clung on desperately as huge waves continued to wash over him.

  He could not remember what followed; he could only assume that he had somehow been washed onto the rocks by a huge wave, and that the subsequent surge of that wave had lifted him to a point where he could safely cling on to the boulder then clamber to the top of it:

  My senses returned but I could hear nothing except the noise of the sea; the first thing I saw in the morning was the dead bodies floating in the sea – I saw that I was the only person there. I was about 10 yards above the level of the sea. The spray washed the rock upon which I was sitting but it was not at all slippery. I was not in danger of being swept away.

  The whole of Sydney mourned the terrible loss. The Sydney Morning Herald of 25 August proclaimed that ‘never was more genuine and heartfelt sympathy evinced and expressed on a public occasion than there was yesterday, as the funeral pageant of the victims of the wreck of the Dunbar passed on’.

  The disaster did have one positive outcome, however. The following year saw the opening of the Hornby Lighthouse, on the tip of Sydney’s South Head, which ensured that no captains would be confused by the location of South Head again.

  *

  Nine years after Johnson survived the Dunbar wreck, a touch of irony came to pass. After deciding to remain in Australia, he was appointed to a position with the Marine Board in Newcastle, 60 nautical miles north of Sydney. Part of this role involved working in the Nobby’s Head Light at the entrance to Newcastle Harbour, at the mouth of the Hunter River.

  On 12 July 1866, Johnson was stationed at the lighthouse, observing the incredibly wild weather offshore. The wind was gale force and the breaking seas alarmingly large: perilous conditions for many vessels.

  The previous night, the coastal steamer Cawarra had departed Sydney carrying sixty-three passengers and crew, bound for Brisbane, but by the time she was almost abeam of Newcastle, the captain was becoming concerned for the safety of the vessel and her passengers. The conditions were so dangerous, in fact, that he decided to make a run for Newcastle.

  News spread rapidly around the Newcastle waterfront that, despite the raging seas, a ship was attempting to enter the port. Within half an hour, hundreds were gathered on the 90-foot-high Nobby’s Head and on the beaches either side of the river entrance to watch the daring attempt. Everyone was amazed that the captain would elect to try to enter the port, but concluded that, despite the obvious dangers, he considered it to be a safer alternative than staying offshore in the extreme conditions.

  The waves were so huge that Cawarra often disappeared into the troughs. Eventually, when the appropriate position was reached more than a mile offshore, the captain turned his ship to port and steered for the river mouth, and as he did so, some crew were seen to hoist a small jib, obviously to assist steerage and help maintain the highest possible speed. The crowd onshore was spellbound.

  Suddenly, gasps, shouts and cries of dread filled the air. Cawarra had got out of control and veered across a mighty, near-breaking wave, almost capsizing.

  She was doomed from that moment. Wave after wave thundered over her, and as she lay beam-on to their might, those aboard could be seen being washed into the water. Within minutes she was breaking up, and her funnel and mainmast had gone over the side.

  In a very short time Cawarra was no longer visible, and bodies and wreckage were being washed onto the shore. Conditions were too dangerous for any rescue boat to venture offshore, so the shocked spectators who had watched the drama unfold were certain there would be no survivors.

  However, more than an hour later the lighthouse keeper s
ighted a person clinging to a large plank and being washed into the river mouth from seaward. He responded immediately, directing his son Henry Hannell, a fisherman named James Francis and Dunbar survivor James Johnson to rush to a lifeboat and row out into the teeth of the gale to rescue the man.

  Fortunately, they were successful. Fate had given James Johnson an opportunity to ‘pay it forward’; the beneficiary of a life-saving good deed had repaid it to another.

  *

  As well as disasters within a hair’s breadth of the ship’s destination, there were those that occurred agonisingly close to the ship’s home port.

  Just one month after Marco Polo returned from her second trip to Melbourne in September 1853, the Blackwaller Dalhousie sank off Beachy Head on England’s southern coast, 50 nautical miles to the east of the Isle of Wight. Fifty passengers and crew perished, and as with the Dunbar wreck, there was just one survivor: twenty-two year old able seaman Joseph Reed. He later provided a graphic account of what had happened.

  Dalhousie had sailed from the Downs – the ship anchorage off Deal in the Straits of Dover – on 18 October 1853, and headed down the English Channel towards Plymouth, where she was to take on board more passengers. At 10pm that same evening, when the ship was about 10 nautical miles to the west of Dungeness in Kent, the wind changed direction to the south-east and increased rapidly to gale force. By midnight, a rough and powerful sea had developed, so Captain Butterworth called all hands on deck to either lower or furl sails.