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The Lady McNaghten left Plymouth at dawn on Sunday, 24 February, 1850, passing around
the Breakwater and so out to sea, with the Eddystone lighthouse on her left.
The Rev Mereweather wrote in his diary: 'At daybreak we weighed anchor and sailed slowly
out of the harbour under a cloudless sky.'
William Rayment wrote: 'I waved my hand. I can safeiy say that I did not see the boat for
tears.' Edward Lloyd, who sailed from Liverpool wrote: 'My meditations were interrupted by a
person informing me that the pilot was about to leave us, and that if I had any message to send, i
would now have the opportunity. I hastily scribbled a few lines, and gave them to him: and once
his form had disappeared over the side, and the sound of oars from his boat died away in the
distance, I felt as if the last connecting link between me and the old country was severed. The
night was settling in, and adding an external gloom to the already sombre colour of my thoughts.
"You are at sea now," said a voice.'
The scene on the Lady McNaghten was described by the Rev Mereweather, and we may
imagine that among the on-deck passengers within his gaze were our Honeycombes.
He wrote: The ship is now swarming with her new denizens, who are all clustering round her
sides, casting farewell and lingering looks on the shores of England as they are gradually falling
back into the far horizon. Some of the women, I observed, were shedding tears as they
watched the old country sink into the sea behind them, others appeared thoughtful and serious:
but the men showed no more feeling than if they had been going on a pleasure excursion. For
my own part, although I was little affected at sailing away from the impenetrable fogs of
London, yet, now that I am sailing away from the beautiful coasts of Devonshire, under a
glorious morning's sun, on this tranquil Sabbath morning, I think with regret on my country that I
am leaving, perhaps for ever, and think that I never loved her half so well as I do now... The
confusion on board prevented me from having morning service. But at eight in the evening I had
the usual prayers, after which I addressed the newly arrived, and told them that it was my wish
to continue evening prayers up to the end of my voyage. I pointed out to them the infinite
blessings which attend the prayers of even two or three met together in Christ's name, and I
sincerely hoped that those who were averse to joining in this delightful communion, would not
be so discourteous (to use the mildest expression,) as to interrupt those who were anxious to
offer up the homage of their hearts to the God of tempests. I concluded this address with a
blessing. Afterwards, a party of the emigrants came round me and thanked me for my
determination. They also said that they would do all in their power to second my efforts in every
way during the voyage. Thus ends what may be termed the first day of the voyage.'
William Honeycombe, aged 53, was probably not among that approving little group of
emigrants. Given what we know of his character he is not likely to have been a religious or
God-fearing man - although his wife was apparently a Wesleyan. I see him, as the ship moves
southwestwards along the shadowed coast, standing by a bulwark, his family below, musing on
the past, hoping that the ship will safely reach her destination and, like Micawber, that something
will
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turn up. For he could not have had the slightest notion of what might happen in that other world
a world away. Nor of what would happen. Nor that what he and his family were doing was life-
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