by Janet Lee
Michael was no longer the happy rogue he had been when we first met. I tried to tell him that there might be more children, but he did not like me saying this, as he said no other child would replace John and in any case he did not want any more as he did not want to be put through the sadness of another baby dying.
He was working when John died, but he said to me that there was no point in working, for he would never make enough in wages to pay back our debts.
And he began to wake from his sleep and imagine that he heard John crying and he would look about for the baby. And at other times he said he heard someone outside or imagined them throwing berries upon the roof of the cottage and I asked him who this might be, and why would they do such a thing? He used to say, Can you hear them, Louie? and I confess, sir, I never heard this myself.
I have lately written of these berries to my mother, for there are some which grow in Botany and people say they will make you sick. Perhaps it was these which made my Michael sick, or he thought they made him so. I do not know, but we all lived in the same house, sir, and none of the rest of us were unwell.
I think it was the stress of losing our baby that caused him to worry so about money, and the bailiff and the like.
At one time I said he should try his hand at the gamble again, or at the races. He said that if I was to stop the drinking it might be easier to feed the children. I told him that there was a time when he had enjoyed coming for a drink and had been a much nicer man for it, which I think was not the right thing to be saying.
I tried to be kind, but there were times when I found him vexing. Although I know it is not right to say this of the dead, and it was only on a few occasions that I was annoyed, I am sure.
I was pleased when Michael returned to working, for it was good for him to be out of the house and doing something, and I did not have him being sad around me all day. But he told me fellmongering was not the sort of work which he wanted to do and that any man who had owned two suits should not have to do such low work as this. He thought it was beneath him, sir, was what he meant. And it well might have been, for it is filthy, dirty work, but my Charles had done such work and worse besides, killing beasts and the like. And there was that difference between them, you see. Charles just accepted this sort of work as his lot and got on with the doing of it.
I have wondered since I have been in gaol whether there ever was a farm waiting for Michael or whether he had only imagined there was, dreaming that he himself was destined for better things, much as I myself used to hope for a home like the one the Missus had.
And I think that perhaps Michael came to understand that this was just a fanciful dream when John died and he found he could not even pay for the coffin. When your dreams die, it is part of growing up and accepting your lot in life. That can be a hard lesson when it comes.
And it was around this time, while Michael was so low in spirits, that he became unwell, although, to start with, we both thought it was only a cold.
He had a few days’ working on the cart which carried the green skins from Glebe Island and he would sit upon the bloodied skins as he rode on the cart.
And he did this on and off for about a fortnight, but he complained of a lump in his groin – although I never did see this myself, sir. There was also a sore upon his leg, a cut or graze, that he had for some time, and which would not heal.
I first noticed this when I saw him limping and, well, I could smell something upon him and it smelt like meat when it had gone bad, but when I asked him about it, he said to let him alone, that it was nothing and he had been to the chemist and been given a powder which he was taking.
He could not bear his leg to be exposed to the air and so he said that he would keep his trousers on in bed, if I was agreeable, for then the blanket would not irritate his leg.
Of course, I said, I was agreeable if it gave him comfort.
The next week I was preparing to do the wash and it must have been a Monday, for I always did the wash of a Monday. I was hanging his warm coat and brushing it to see if it needed a wash, and in the breast pocket I found a small package wrapped in paper, and when I opened it, there was some white powder inside. I thought this might be the medicine which Michael had spoken of.
So I asked him and he told me that it was and I asked what the medicine was called and he said he did not rightly know the name, but he had been recommended it by a friend.
And I said he would do better to have a poultice if he had a sore, for a poultice will draw the poison right out of a wound, if applied properly, sir. And he said he would rather use the learnings of the man he saw at Waterloo than the meddlings of an old woman, and so I did not say anything more, sir, as I did not like him speaking to me in this way.
But I do still think a poultice might have been best, as it could have been that sore on his leg which killed him.
Over the next few days, he continued to be going about his business and heading to work, although his leg seemed to be causing him some pain. A few times I asked him if he wanted me to mix the powder for him, thinking I might help him and it might ease his discomfort, but he said he did not need me to mix anything for him, and so I did not and I did not see him use the powder either, though I did ask him several times if he was taking it.
He woke on the Saturday morning at four o’clock and he went off to work.
When he came home for his breakfast, he asked for some milksops and so I gave him a bowl and he put the bread and milk in himself and made them, but after only a little while I heard him in the yard, retching violently. I went out to tend to him and asked if it was the powder he was taking that was making him so sick and he said that he was not taking the powder at all and that it was the cold which was making him ill.
He went back to work, but I later heard a witness say Michael had needed to get down off the dray and be sick in the bushes. He came home and went to bed, but was very unwell all through that day and the next, and when he seemed no better, I took him to see the doctor in Elizabeth Street. We went on the tram, but the doctor would not see Michael or listen to his chest except if I paid for him to do it, and he made Michael come out to the waiting room to get the money from me, which must have been shameful for him to have to come and ask his wife for money in front of the doctor and other men who waited.
The doctor prescribed some medicine, a tonic and some powders and I got these from the chemist myself, or I sent one of the children to get them. Michael said that he was sure the medicine would do him no good but that he would take it anyway as otherwise it would be a waste of money going to the doctor. He said that he thought the bailiffs would come to the house soon, and so, with every knock upon the door, he became fearful that it would be them.
I told him that the only money I owed was to Mrs Bullock for our John, and that she would not be calling the bailiffs for she knew that I would pay my way in the end as I always did. Besides, I said, she would not be calling the bailiffs for a pound borrowed to bury a dead child.
When Michael’s health did not improve I went in to see the doctor again myself and asked him to come out to see my husband, and he came back with me on the tram. And when he examined Michael he prescribed more powders.
They did not seem to make any difference, sir.
So the next day, or maybe the day after, I cannot be sure, I went back to the doctor and he came out, and he tried some new powders on Michael, and he also took some of Michael’s vomit and fluids for testing.
But nothing seemed to help.
And there were more visits from the doctor and, oh, sir, there were so many medicines he was asking me to give to Michael. But I gave them all exactly as he said, and even with all the powders and tonics, Michael just got sicker and sicker; a young healthy man like that, it was a sorrow to watch.
And the doctor said I should take Michael to the hospital and I said I would do no such thing for all my life, for I to
ld him it was known that all those who went to the hospital died there, and that hospitals were bad places. My thoughts on hospitals have not improved at all, sir, given what I know the doctors at the hospital did to my husband Charles and to my son John when they dug them up.
And when Michael was still so unwell, I sent one of the boys – Arthur, I think it was – up to Elizabeth Street on the tram to fetch the doctor out again and this was when the two doctors came to my house together. The doctor who I had been seeing to attend to Michael brought the one who had attended Charles; he wanted another opinion, I think, but I am not sure. Because there were so many doctor visits, and people coming and going in the house, and powders to be mixed, and each day of worry seemed to jumble in with the next.
All the while, Michael was bothered and worried that the bailiff might come, and he should not have been thinking of this, he should have been trying to get well.
Was there anyone who helped you while you nursed him, Louisa? the chaplain says.
I tell him that there was – the neighbours sat with me beside the bed, and Mrs Pettit stayed with me well into the night.
And did you have anyone pray with you, Louisa? he asks.
I did not, sir, I say. But I did try to get a priest for Michael, or at least the Sisters of Mercy, as he was Catholic, but there was none who could come.
Through his last night, Michael looked very bad, and his eyes had sunk back in his head. But he slept a little, sir, which was a kindness for him.
Now, sir, at some time in those last few days, Michael said to me, Louie, look to the lights here, and he pointed at something in the room, but I could not see anything there and so I said, There are no lights, my love.
And he said, No, Louie, there are so many stars all around, and green lights. There was one of our neighbours there with me, and they heard him say this as well.
When Michael breathed his last I was glad that he told me of the lights, for it made me think that he was going to a better place, and that his last thoughts were not of the bailiffs.
I quite lost my senses when Michael died. And I have been told since that I said I did not want to live without my Michael.
Much has been made of me saying this when Michael died and also some things I said when my husband Charles died as well, and the truth is, sir, I cannot rightly recall if I said these things or not. But what I said when Michael died has been taken to mean that I did not care for my own children, which of course was most upsetting to them, and is not true, as it was just my grief talking.
If I said things in grief, or if I mourned too little or too much for my husbands, that does not mean that I murdered them, sir.
55.
The constable came and took me from my home after Michael’s death. We walked to the police station and I was tired and had been drinking and my heart was full of grief for my Michael.
There are those who think that I should not have remarried so soon after the death of my first husband, or that I should not have claimed the money from Charles’s life insurance policy, but then they have not been a widow on their own, trying to raise children, and I have known other women who have had many more husbands besides, and not been charged with the killing of the earlier ones.
And they have branded me a murderess on the word of my own little daughter, and a nobbler glass they say was full of poison.
Yes, sir, I think I would like to pray with you now.
56.
For weeks I have been clinging to the thought that they will not hang a woman, but my appeal has failed and now the chaplain is telling me they may indeed hang me.
He says he knows people have been to see the Governor of New South Wales to beg for me.
And he says I should also write to him myself and beg for his mercy.
The chaplain says there is little time left to change the mind of those who will execute me.
I tell him that until that last step is taken, until the door opens and that last drop comes, until there is no breath in my body, there is still a chance those who can spare my life will do so.
I pray with the chaplain.
I pray to God for His mercy.
Then I write to the Governor.
And I beg for his as well.
57.
Darlinghurst Gaol, Sydney
7 January 1889
Some of the children come to visit me.
We cry and cling.
I cannot speak.
58.
Darlinghurst Gaol, Sydney
8 January 1889
They come to get me from my cell.
Alice has stayed with me through the night, and Warder Anderson came early this morning.
Both the warders shed tears as they each say their goodbyes to me, for we do this here instead of out upon the gallows.
I thank each of them in turn, and hold Alice for some time, although, I tell her, she will see me soon enough. I still have hopes of a reprieve.
I squeeze her hand. If I am not reprieved, she will keep my letter and give it to May when the child has grown older.
Canon Rich was here until late in the evening, and he has come back early this morning. We have spent the time praying for my soul, and I have prayed for a reprieve. I tell him what a great comfort he has been to me and that he is a good man.
I turn my hands out for the shackles and the Female Governor says we shall not need them today. She looks me in the face. I nod.
Then we all walk out together: the Female Governor, the many warders, the chaplain and myself.
Quite the parade.
Our procession walks from my cell to the end of the cell block and then out into the gaol yard.
This is the first time in a month I have been allowed to walk outside my cell without shackles.
I feel light.
All the prisoners are still locked in their cells as the governors do this when there is an execution. It is hot and the slop buckets shall be overflowing and the cells shall smell none too sweet.
We walk around the edge of the cell block and along past the Chapel, then we turn to the left and walk towards the men’s largest cell block. I have never been to this part of the gaol. It is off limits to the women prisoners. I should like to have a care to look around me, but there is no time this morning.
I do take the time as we walk to look up at the sky. For one moment, I pause and tip my head back and look at the blue above me. My father would like this sky, and say it was a good omen.
I think, This is the same bright blue which covers my children and perhaps they look up as I do. I send my love to them upon this sky, and I pray that whenever the sky is blue, they may think of me.
Alice touches my elbow and gives me a gentle smile. We walk on.
We enter the large cell block and I think we go to another cell.
My arms are pinned in restraints.
I am not sure of time.
We mount the steps to the second floor.
I am walking upon the steps which may lead to my death.
I am still hopeful I shall be granted a reprieve.
They will never hang a woman.
Suddenly, we are at the scaffold, and I look down. There are a dozen men who wait patiently to see the entertainment I will provide.
I hear noise from outside the prison walls. I think a crowd has gathered.
I lose some of my nerve – there is little time left, perhaps there shall be no reprieve.
A hood is placed upon my face, and I cannot see those around me, though I hear quite clearly the voice of the chaplain as he prays beside me, the hawkers calling out across the wall that they sell locks of my hair. I hear Flora calling out, Hello, dearie, and I smile, in spite of myself.
I am glad for the hood which covers my face, for what should they think of a woman smiling as she is about to be hung?
And then it is just Canon Rich I hear, and he is telling me to make my peace with God and not to be afraid. I hear a quivering in his voice.
He is a good, kind man.
I want to tell him that I am not afraid, because I shall yet be reprieved from this hanging, and given leave to live in the gaol. That the men who have brought my life to this point will suddenly realise the decisions they have made, and will call off this hanging. That at the last minute, the trapdoor will not open, and the Governor shall tell the hangman to lift the noose from my neck, and take the hood from my face.
I want to comfort the chaplain and tell him that all will be well, that I shall live in the gaol and my hair will grow long.
But I cannot speak.
Under the hood, I close my eyes, and I see all those who are around me.
I see my husbands, I see my boys, and I see May, as she was on the night that we held a wake for Charles.
I see her coming to me and skipping to the music, and I feel her take my hands as we dance.
Her hair is swinging out behind her and she has a blue ribbon around her curls, a ribbon embroidered with bluebirds.
She shall grow into a beauty.
I hope she may have her own life, not one thrust on her by others.
As I stand upon the scaffold, I hear them push the lever.
The trapdoor does not open.
I am reprieved.
Epilogue
Darlinghurst Gaol, Sydney
8 January 1889
Today was a most heartbreaking scene. This morning I walked with the prisoner Mrs Collins, Louisa, as she went to her death.
We had spent much of the night in her cell, with warders in attendance. Warder Harper has been a calm companion and has served Louisa well.
Alice Harper was much affected.
Louisa continued until the very last to hold her stoicism that the government would not hang her.