Williamstown amateur historian Barb McNeill is Star Weekly’s history columnist. This week she writes of the panic that spread through Williamstown and surrounding suburbs in the 1850s when residents thought Russian invaders had arrived to pillage the colony.
In 1854, Melbourne’s main topic of conversation was the Crimean War and the brutal atrocities of the Russian Army.
When the conflict began in 1853, Melbourne became very wary of Russians. After all, Victoria had vast goldfields that no enemy could resist plundering, so the authorities asked Sydney to spare some troops, and Sydney responded by sending a small force to protect the southern city.
The continuing hostilities in the Crimea convinced Melbourne that the Russians would soon be on their way to commit wholesale pillage of the colony.
Companies of eager volunteers were organised to repel the enemy, fortifications were hastily thrown up along the coast, and the population settled down to await the inevitable invasion.
Shortly after nightfall on 7th September 1854, the unmistakable sound of cannon fire boomed over Hobson’s Bay. It was immediately followed by showers of rockets exploding in the sky, and sharp bursts of artillery fire. All over Melbourne, homes and pubs were rapidly emptied as the cry went up: “The Russians are here!“
Terror-stricken mobsin Port Melbourne pointed to a sinister red glow in the sky.
“Look- they’re burning Williamstown!“
Volunteers scurried to their assembly points while the regulars marched to their posts, determined to defend Melbourne to the last man. Civilians charged around collecting an impressive assortment of muskets, waddies and pitchforks and by the time the news reached Governor Hotham and Captain Lonsdale, the city was armed to the teeth.
Captain William Lonsdale, formerly of the 4th Regiment, immediately mounted his horse and galloped importantly into Melbourne, which reverberated with rockets and guns blasting away all over the port.
Stopping a fear-crazed civilian who brandished a shovel at him, Lonsdale sharply asked for the latest news.
“Russians,“ the fellow babbled.
“They landed at Williamstown, but the 40th Regiment beat them off. Now they’re coming up the Yarra!“
“They’ve sunk most of our ships,“ panted a passer-by.
“The boys at the Williamstown breakwater have killed hundreds of them.“
Everywhere Lonsdale looked, he saw frenzied preparations for war. Innkeepers were handing out free grog to the gallant troops on their way to the front.
Prepared for a long siege, women were hauling in food supplies, and several elderly gents were practising duelling with enormous enthusiasm.
Believing that it was only a matter of time before the city was overrun by wild Tartars and sword-waving Cossacks, Lonsdale took his horse at full steam to Port Melbourne.
En route, it struck him that despite the terrible bombardment going on, the Russians were very poor shots indeed. For a city that was being sacked and burned, Melbourne appeared to be remarkably intact.
With a grunt, Lonsdale reined in at the beach of Port Melbourne, where an enormous crowd was demonstrating its willingness to die in defence of the city. They were joined by the 12th Regiment, who, with a squeal of fifes, announced that they, too, were ready to sacrifice their lives. Drums throbbed, bugles blew, and the lads took up a fighting stance with fixed bayonets.
Screams of rage and terror burst out as more cannon fire rocked the beach. Ladies wept and bade farewell to their doomed lovers, and one poor young volunteer, finding the situation intolerable, disgraced himself by bursting into tears and howling for his mother.
Lonsdale remained on his horse, drumming impatient fingers on the pommel. Straining his eyes in the gloom, he shouted, “Where are the confounded Russians!?“
As the hysteria of the crowd made it clear that no intelligible answer was forthcoming, the captain angrily forced his way through the swarm and ferreted out the habourmaster, who was happily drinking rum in the comfort of his office.
To Lonsdale’s curt query, the fellow laughed his head off. “Russians? Bless you sir, it’s only the Great Britain celebrating her arrival.“
The iron-hulled Great Britain, until 1853 holding the crown as the world’s largest passenger ship, was the most reliable of all emigrant vessels. Her principal engineer was the famous Isambard
Brunel; his assistant the aptly named Thomas Guppy.
The ship wasn’t guaranteed unsinkable, but nervous voyagers felt reassured when told about these wonderful men.
Lonsdale’s enquiries revealed that the Great Britain, on her third voyage to Australia and with hundreds of passengers on board, had recently spent three tiresome weeks in quarantine at Portsea, owing to a smallpox scare after a passenger had died.
The dread yellow flag had been hoisted and the ship docked at the Sanitary Station where isolation was so strict that passengers and crew were not allowed even to post letters to their loved ones.
Everyone was vaccinated. No sympathy whatsoever was shown to the whingers who grumbled about the inconvenience to seven hundred
people that had been created by one passenger’s death. Either you submitted to the jab, or you were marooned at Portsea for the rest of your days. It is a moot point if any of their descendants were amongst those who groused about the Covid lockdowns in Melbourne…
As soon as it was confirmed that there were no further cases of the terrible disease, the Great Britain thankfully sailed to Melbourne.
On seeing the friendly lights of Hobson’s Bay, her skipper, the amiable Scotsman, Captain John Grey, felt so happy to be back in civilisation that he decided, without first asking anyone’s permission, to fire his cannons.
The crews of anchored ships, delighted to relieve the boredom, responded with their own cannons, as well as rifles, rockets and flares.
Blissfully unaware of the terror that reigned on shore, they were enjoying the impromptu display immensely.
Satisfied that no Russians were lurking in Hobsons Bay, Captain Lonsdale rode off to report to Governor Hotham, and the troops packed their rifles and went quietly home.