by David Vernon
Despite the orderly’s promise that the offender was gone, locked safely away in custody, I was still awake when day broke.
I’m still awake now, in fact — awake and alone in a private room. Yep, they finally figured I deserved a break and moved me here this evening. The décor’s even a bit nicer: baby blue walls, lace curtains. But do you reckon I can sleep? Not likely. The bloody silence is driving me crazy.
The facts:
This story is based on my father’s experiences when he went to hospital early this year with complications with his Parkinson’s disease. There has been some poetic license in terms of the narrator’s character, but the rest is pretty much how his hospital stay played out.
A freelance writer with a love of travel, Sam Wilson has written articles and reviews for the likes of Lonely Planet, Explore Australia and Detour magazine. She lives in Melbourne with her husband and fur baby, an Oriental cat called Spartan. Her favourite short story is Bernice Bobs Her Hair by F. Scott Fitzgerald, and her favourite vice is Veuve Cliquot.
Woodsreef
— Pippa Kay
It was a bit of a squeeze, but we managed to get the whole school onto the bus. The littlies in Kindergarten and First class were three to a seat and us Year Five and Six kids had to stand. Miss Williamson was up the front near the driver, leading us in a round of The Wheels on the Bus. The wheels on this bus were jumping in and out of potholes, and we swung around the poles we were hanging onto. When I reached up to hold onto the ceiling strap, which, because I was tall for my age I could just reach, I felt the sweat run down my body. The windows were open and we were breathing in flies and dust, but at least there was a breeze.
The song over, Miss Williamson clapped her hands to get our attention again.
“Who can tell me the name of the Premier of New South Wales?” she asked.
The little kids didn’t know of course, but I did, and I already had my hand up hanging onto the strap. She pointed to me.
“Mr Askin,” I answered.
“Sir Robert Askin,” she corrected. “And who are we going to see today?”
“Sir Robert Askin,” everyone called out.
“And where are we going?”
“To Woodsreef,” answered Johnny, who was standing behind me.
“And why is this mine so important for Barraba?” she asked.
“Jobs,” shouted Jenny next to me, without putting her hand up, because she was too busy holding on.
“And what do they dig out of the ground here at Woodsreef?” asked Miss Williamson.
“Asbestos.”
“Now, who can spell asbestos?”
The driver parked the bus under a tree and we all clambered down and lined up behind Miss Williamson, the youngest children in front as usual. She led us to a little stage that had been set up in the shade of a giant truck, on some cleared ground. We had to sit on the dirt, while the grown ups sat on some chairs that had been arranged in rows behind us.
“Quiet now children,” she said, “I want you to listen carefully because I’ll ask some questions later.”
We sat and swatted flies until a man in a suit stepped onto the stage. He was the boss of the mine, and he talked about how the mine had first opened more than fifty years ago in 1919. Asbestos, he said, was a wonderful product for fire-proofing, sound-proofing and insulation, and there was a growing demand. His company had taken over the mine and they were going to expand, buying more big trucks like the one behind us, and setting up the mill to meet this demand.
He introduced Sir Robert Askin, who had a big head that made me think of a watermelon. He talked about jobs and what this would do for Barraba, but I found it hard to concentrate because I was watching the sweat bubble out of his forehead and drip down his shiny face, and I thought of juice running down my chin when I ate a slice of watermelon, and how it would be really nice to have some right now. Miss Williamson had told us all this stuff about the mine anyway. The little kids were getting restless and some were playing tickling games and giggling.
At last the speeches were over. We lined up behind Miss Williamson again and were taken inside the mill-house, which was eight storeys high — the tallest building I’d ever seen. Here, a man was shovelling some rocks and stones onto a conveyor belt, which went into a noisy machine and came out the other side with white stuff on it. The sun streamed through some high windows and dust motes floated in the sunbeams as we followed the conveyor belt through the building. Just before it disappeared into a metal bin we saw another man scooping up some of the asbestos and putting it into little paper bags, which were handed out to each of us children; our very own sample of asbestos.
We came out the other side of the mill and into the daylight again where we were given a glass of warm lime cordial and a melted Iced VoVo biscuit by the boss of the mine, while the grown ups had beer.
Having finished our morning tea we all piled onto the bus again, Kindies first, Year Six last, and everyone else in between, clutching our paper bags full of asbestos. It was even hotter on the bus on the way home and kids started throwing their paper bags to each other across the bus. Some burst and other boys blew theirs up like balloons and popped them, and there were white fibres floating in the air with the dust and flies. I saved mine to show my parents. I had a feeling this was an important day.
My son is driving along Crow Mountain Road, the road that goes through the now derelict Woodsreef Mine, the same road we’d travelled on that bus for the opening ceremony in 1972. My pregnant daughter-in-law is sharing the back seat with my oxygen cylinder.
I want to see Barraba one more time before I die, and that might be sooner rather than later.
They insisted on coming with me. This is the last place I would want my son and his wife to be in dry dusty weather, but there has been rain and the road is damp. We have the windows wound up and the air conditioning recycling to avoid dust getting into the car.
On one side of the road are the tall gums I remember from my childhood, on the other are grey barren hills seventy-five metres tall, surrounded by cyclone fencing; these are the fine tailings from the mine. Warning signs on the fence are pockmarked with bullet holes and there are occasional gaps in the fence.
The car climbs steadily until we reach the crest from which we can see the old mill building and further on a crater filled with turquoise water in what looks like a moonscape. My son stops the car.
I’m angry, not so much for my own situation, but because they still haven’t solved the problem of Woodsreef. Now no one wants to touch the asbestos they once gave to schoolchildren. Federal politicians argue with state politicians, and they scratch their heads over environmental concerns. Meanwhile, a colony of large-eared bats have made a home in the mill-house and they’re an endangered species. You’d think the welfare of the people in Barraba would be more important than a colony of bats!
We drive on and are soon in Barraba. Queen Street is just as I remember it — a wide main road with parking down the centre, a clock tower and grand old buildings. Around the corner we find the tennis club where my parents played every Sunday, but the courts are full of weeds and every second shop is closed.
The facts:
The characters in this story are fictitious, however Woodsreef is real, as is Barraba, and both are as described — then and now. The story was inspired by a radio interview in which the Opening Ceremony in 1972 was described, including the sample bag of asbestos for the school children attending. The author spent much of her childhood on a property near Barraba and Woodsreef Mine, and has recently visited the area.
Pippa Kay is a Sydney-based author of two books: Doubt & Conviction: The Kalajzich Inquiry and Back Stories. She is a member of The Common Thread Writers Group who give her support and encouragement. Curiosity may be what killed the cat, but it can also stimulate story ideas and Pippa enjoys research. Being a wife, mum and grandma also keeps her busy.
The First Hangman
— Michael Wilkinson
&nb
sp; Wednesday 27 Feb 1788
The convicts stood in long straggling lines, feet shuffling in the dust as they awaited the arrival of Captain Arthur Philip and the party of officials who would signal the death of three of their company. The sun was low in the sky and the heat on that February afternoon was oppressive. Most of the convicts lined up in front of the old Eucalypt had seen death before, either back in London, in one of the provincial cities or towns, on board a ship, or in the army.
In the distance, the convicts heard a slow drum beat coming through the trees. As the sound became louder, a murmur passed down the lines. The overseers shouted for silence and walked the lines, glaring and snarling at those who were not silent and paying attention. Despite the threats, the convict’s heads turned and watched the red-coated, red-faced sweating soldiers escort the shackled men to the base of the tree. The three condemned convicts all looked down at the baked earth. Waiting.
Behind the soldiers, a party of white and blue-coated officials, with Captain Philip at their head, walked into the clearing around the tree. Captain Arthur Philip was dark complexioned and relatively short. However, despite his small size, he had an imposing presence. Nearly twenty-five years at sea, with ten of them commanding Royal Navy warships, meant he knew how to command men, even men as intractable as many of the convicts who stood sullenly before him.
Philip turned on his heel and stood looking at the rows of men and women. He briefly raised his hand and the murmuring and shuffling stopped.
“Today, it my sad and solemn duty to bring the ultimate punishment to bear on these men you see before you,” called Phillip, his voice carrying to all parts of the clearing. “These men have been found guilty not of simply stealing from the stores, a crime terrible enough, but of stealing directly from you. Thomas Barrett, Henry Lovel, and Joseph Hall have been found guilty of stealing beef and pease from the public store. All three were caught in the act and without any excuse whatsoever.”
“We are a small band tasked, by His Majesty King George the Third, with turning this barren land into a great colony. We have but ourselves, our tools, our faith and our strength to do this. Our supplies are ample for all but only if we fairly use them. Men who steal from the Government, steal directly from your stomachs. Their greed imperils everyone and they must now pay for their avarice. As you witness their deaths, pray for their souls and pray that no man or woman among you will follow in their footsteps. Mr Collins, you may proceed.”
Standing beside Arthur Philip, Judge Collins nodded to Henry Brewer, the Provost-Marshall and the officer in charge of the execution party, to hang the first of the three criminals.“Dispatch Barrett first, Mr Brewer, if you will. As leader of the thieves, he should lead the way.”
Brewer, an eccentric with coarse harsh features, nodded then turned to Marine Captain James Campbell, standing next to him. “Captain, do as requested.”
Campbell looked at his soldiers and then with a look of some confusion leant over and muttered into Brewer’s ear, “Sir, we don’t have a hangman.”
Philip and Collins looked on with some bemusement as Brewer and Campbell argued about who should execute the prisoners. Campbell made it clear to Brewer that it was not a duty for the Marines and his men would not do it. Brewer ordered Campbell to get it done, regardless. Campbell asked for a volunteer from the rows of convicts and when nobody moved, he strode over to the first convict in the first row and ordered him to do the job. When the convict refused, Campbell called his sergeant over and told him to shoot the convict unless he agreed at once to be the executioner. Meanwhile, Philip who wanted a show execution and was becoming progressively angry at the delay, called Brewer to him. A short conversation took place and then Brewer ordered Campbell to leave the terrified convict alone. Philip had stated he would pardon James Freeman, another condemned convict, if Freeman agreed to become the colony’s official executioner.
Freeman, who had been contemplating his own death within the hour, struggled to his feet in shock at the sudden reprieve. He was unmanacled from the log to which he had been tethered and as the blood flowed back into his leg he shuffled stiffly toward the gallows tree, not as a condemned man, but as the official hangman. The hangman’s rope was thrust into his hands. While Freeman was telling Campbell that had no idea how to tie a hangman’s noose, the colony’s only clergyman, Reverend Richard Johnson, was talking in a low voice with the condemned men. Holding the Bible in his left hand, the pages fluttering in the breeze, he struggled to read Psalm 23.
“The Lord’s my shepherd, I’ll not want.
He makes me down to lie in pastures green.
He leadeth me the quiet waters by …
… Yea, though I walk in death’s dark vale,
yet will I fear no ill.
For Thou art with me,
and Thy rod and staff me comfort still.”
Barrett, Lovel and Hall waited as Johnson muttered the time-worn psalm. All three had heard it before as it seemed to be a favourite with the clergy at executions and each had witnessed more than one hanging. Indeed, all three had previously escaped their own hanging through a mixture of luck and judicial leniency. Thomas Barrett had been sentenced to death in 1783 for stealing a watch, two shirts and a shift from a woman, Ann Milton. For twelve months, he waited for his execution but then heard he was to be transported to America instead.
While Barrett listened to the last few lines of Psalm 23, Henry Brewer, the Provost-Marshall finally lost all patience with the marines and stormed over to Captain Campbell and Freeman, grabbed the rope and with a few deft twists made a hangman’s knot. Pulling the reluctant Freeman after him he marched to Barrett’s side and slipped the rope over his head. “Reverend, time to do your duty,” he stated.
Reverend Richard Johnson, a man of strong religious conviction, felt that there was little that would save the soul of the man in front of him. “Any last words?” he asked, expecting no response.
Barrett looked at him. “I have no argument with God. God knows that I have done wicked things, but all because of my station in life. I expect no mercy.”
“The Lord listens and judges. You can confess all and seek His mercy.”
Brewer shoved Barrett impatiently towards the ladder. “Just get on with it!” Brewer growled.
Barrett slowly climbed the ladder and looking at the terrified executioner below him, gave a wry smile. “Don’t you worry about me. I’ll not hold it against you.”
“Haven’t you forgotten his blindfold?” asked the Reverend Johnson quietly of Brewer. Brewer grunted and pulled a stained cloth out of his pocket and standing on the lower rungs tied the cloth tightly over Barrett’s eyes. With that small gesture, the fight seemed to go out of Barrett. His shoulders slumped and the nearby convicts heard a sob, just as Brewer turned to the unwilling executioner, Freeman. “Kick it,” he snarled.
Freeman didn’t move. Brewer repeated louder, “Kick it away!” When Freeman still made no move to kick the ladder from under Barrett, Captain Campbell called loudly to one of his marines to shoot Freeman. The scrape of ramrod being removed from the musket convinced Freeman to move. With a hard kick of his boot against the flimsy ladder, the timber snapped under the weight of Barrett, and he was left gurgling and struggling desperately at the end of the short rope.
With that, the continent of Australia witnessed its first official execution.
Thomas Barrett struggled for some time, his death throes being witnessed by Lovel and Hall, the next two waiting to follow their leader. Lovel, the younger of the two, shuddered violently at the sight and vomited on the ground. Hall simply stared straight up to the heavens, his lips moving in silent prayer. The young executioner, Freeman, was in just as a bad state as Lovel. He had sunk to the ground with his head in his hands, his body wracked with dry sobs. While Governor Philip and Judge Collins left shortly after the first death kick, Brewer and Campbell remained and stood silently and impassively as the convulsions slowly ceased. After half an hour and as the light was r
apidly failing, Surgeon John White pronounced Barrett dead. Brewer ordered Campbell’s Marines to cut down Barrett and drag him to the shallow grave behind the gallows tree.
It was clear to Brewer that Freeman was in no fit state to do another hanging and with darkness nearly upon them, he ordered that Lovel and Hall be reprieved until 6 p.m. the following evening. The two men stumbled back with the Marines to a sleepless night. The watching convicts were dismissed.
The next evening, perhaps sickened by the previous day’s farce, Governor Philip did not attend their hanging. Just as the two condemned men were about to climb the now-repaired ladder, Brewer arrived with the Governor’s pardon, which stopped the hanging but instead condemned the two men to banishment to an uninhabited part of Australia.
The facts:
Witnesses and records relating to the death of Barrett and the appointment of Freeman as Colony Executioner are contradictory. Several records indicate the above sequence of events, while Surgeon White’s journal indicates that Freeman was appointed two days after Barrett’s execution. White may have been mistaken in his timing as much of his journal was written days or weeks after the actual event.
Michael Wilkinson is an Australian writer with a love of the bush. He has been writing since the age of twelve and now, three decades later is still writing. He writes both fiction and non-fiction. He has been published in the Stringybark Stories anthologies: The Heat Wave of ’76, The Road Home, Between the Sheets, Tainted Innocence, The Seven Deadly Sins, Behind the Wattles, Hitler Did It, Fight or Flight and Valentine’s Day.