The Hanging of Mary Ann
Page 1
THE HANGING OF
Mary Ann
Based on a true story, this colonial woman was a victim of the times
ANGELA BADGER
Published by Brolga Publishing Pty Ltd
ABN 46 063 962 443
PO Box 12544
A’Beckett St
Melbourne, VIC, 8006
Australia
email: markzocchi@brolgapublishing.com.au
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted in any form or by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise without prior permission from the publisher.
Copyright © 2014 Angela Badger
National Library of Australia Cataloguing-in-Publication entry
Badger, Angela, author.
The hanging of Mary Ann
9781922175526 (paperback)
9781922175748 (eBook)
Women murderers--Australia--Fiction.
Hanging--Australia--Fiction.
Women’s rights--Australia--Fiction.
A823.3
Cover design & Typesetting by Wanissa Somsuphangsri
Photography by Daphne Salt
Cover image: A portrait of Clara Rice as Mary Ann Rural scene: the South Australian Alps by George Edwards Peacock, Courtesy of the Mitchell Library, State Library of NSW.
CHAPTER 1
They came for her mid-afternoon.
They should have come early in the morning but the gaoler’s wife had whispered, “We’re still waiting luvvy, still time,” and put the bowl of porridge down, then hurried away. What can you say to someone waiting to die?
Every day a reprieve had been expected. Each afternoon the Sydney coach rumbled into Goulburn and half the townsfolk turned out…. hoping.
Surely there would be word from the Governor? Tomorrow, the next day, maybe the day after. Time was running out.
Her hair had been cut off. Nothing must tangle with the hangman’s rope.
As the scissors snicked through her thick dark locks she thought of another whose hair had also been shorn. Another barely ten years older than she, whose hair had turned white with the terror and who listened for the grinding wheels of the tumbril with no possible hope of rescue.
There was still time for Mary Ann. Even if the coach had nothing in the mail, a horseman could yet come galloping down the highway with the papers in his saddlebag. Everyone in the town waited… waited and hoped.
But nothing came.
“We will kneel together.” The Rev Sowerby touched her on the shoulder. “We will pray together and give Him thanks.” even Samuel Sowerby felt a twinge of unease as he spoke those words.
Thanks… for what?
He had christened, married and buried Mary Ann’s family and all those other families around Lake George for three generations but had never had to watch anyone, let alone a young woman in her prime, take those last fatal steps.
For several days her ears had been filled with the sound of hammering; now, as they led her from the building, she saw the gallows waiting for her.
Spite, fury, screaming impotence filled the air as shrieking women prisoners crowded round the windows yelling down abuse at the prison guards.
She heard none of it as she halted for a moment at the first step. Instead she took a deep breath and then paused at the next one, and the next after that, savouring the memory of all that she would never know again. The cry of the plovers down by the dam, a baby’s warm breath on her cheek, the touch of a loving hand, the taste of fresh baked bread and honey, the sound of a fiddler tuning up for the dance, the bleat of a new born lamb, the early morning challenge of the rooster and the cawing of the crows as they circled high above the lake… the crows. She even managed a smile as she looked up at the sky and the wheeling birds; they were old friends. They had always been part of her life, everything about them was familiar. Not like the rough stuff of the hood they pulled over her head, nor the hard bite of the noose they put about her neck.
Panic snatched at her.
Fear gripped her throat, then her chest, her bowels, her bladder as she strained to hold back her water. That other woman must have struggled as her body betrayed her fear, certainly she had bled. For many days before she faced the guillotine her womb had shed itself. White-haired and bleeding, head held high, that woman had faced her end, had never faltered.
Now Mary Ann must follow in those footsteps. She shut her eyes, she squeezed them tightly shut till all that was left of her world were pinpoints of light in the darkness.
Try as she might, the fear surged inside her. Then soft hands took hold of her bound ones and a wise, sad voice whispered, “Fear not, I have trodden this path before you.”
CHAPTER 2
“Sit here, Grand-père. You’re just a bit out of breath.” Why was it that old people never could keep up? Always huffing and puffing and lagging behind when old cats still climbed trees, old dogs ran faster than she could and old crows still flew across the sky.
Three of those birds were mourning their way across the heavens at that moment. Black flakes from the bonfire of a disappearing life, they swooped to earth and settled on a ring-barked tree.
The great crows had for centuries ranged over forest, plain and bush. Nowadays paddocks patchworked the land and, where bush had once cloaked the terrain, shrivelled lagoons and dusty ridges stretched as far as the eye could see. Those beady eyes missed nothing – water, faltering prey, safe places for nesting, all that made up the life of a predator.
From Collegdar to Gundaroo and beyond the countryside stretched, a vast canvas on which the new race of human beings had begun to paint its own picture. Those who had settled near the stretch of water known as Weereewaa had changed its name in honour of a distant king, and now strived to bring some semblance of civilisation to their isolated lives. Seventeen miles long, six miles wide, Lake George stretched into the distance whilst over the Cullarin Range scattered dwellings marked the beginnings of settlements.
Mary Ann perched herself on one of the flat rocks that crowned the hill and patted the surface beside her.
“You promised! You said you’d tell me more. You said you’d tell me about that ball, remember?”
“The Ball of the Yew Trees! Patience! Patience, for heaven’s sake. Let me get my breath back.”
Whenever Richard Guise rode out his granddaughter clamoured to be taken with him. Even when very small he’d tucked her in front of him. Now she had her own pony.
“Why can’t you be content to stay with your sisters?”
He’d half grumble and half smile to himself as he experienced the glow of flattery when she replied, as she always did, “You know, I’d rather be with you, Grand-père.” For Mary Ann had no time for the chit-chat of family life. Where others chose to sew and embroider, read and gossip, she preferred the broad open paddocks and the lake, always the lake.
Lake George displayed its bounty for all to see. A vast stretch of water with distant hills hinting at mountains beyond. Seagulls flocked overhead while brolgas, herons and spoonbills waded in the shallows and bobbing ducks busied themselves amongst the reeds. Flotillas of black swans glided across the surface while pelicans scythed their way down from the sky to land upon the water and search for fish.
In the palm of its hand the great lake held the fate of all who settled near the shores. The ancient owners had now begun to move away as the white men took over the land for themselves and their lumbering beasts. If any of the newcomers had thought to ask those who’d dwelt upon its shores for all those generations they might have learnt the real secret of Lake George and been more wary of its blandishments.
From their vantage point the two of t
hem could see the lake glimmering in the distance. The Guise property stretched as far as the eye could see, and besides this farm there were acreages at Liverpool, Parramatta, Macquarie Fields and much else besides. But this was where the Guise family chose to make its home.
“Sit down, child, you’re making me quite giddy. Don’t stand up on that rock. If you fall you’ll do yourself real damage.”
“I can see for miles. Miles and miles… I can see as far as the river…and there’s a hut there. Oh Grand-père, there’s a girl there, she’s throwing sticks for a dog, and he’s barking and barking.”
“Sit down at once.”
“If we went past the dam and took the other path, down to the river, I could say hello.”
“No, you could not, young miss.”
“Why not? She’s bigger than me but she’d play with me, I know she would.”
At a loss for words, for a moment the old man did not answer. He stared at the distant ramshackle dwelling with a frown on his face.
“Why not?”
“Peasants! No better than tinkers! Enough! Don’t try to argue… most definitely not! Now, what were you asking? Ah…The Ball of the Yew Trees. Give me a moment while I put on my thinking cap.”
Narrowing his eyes he blinked in the sunlight. For a minute or so he sat in silence, then a faint smile touched his lips. “Yes, I remember, everyone wore green masks and the ladies had their hair dressed so cleverly it was as much as three feet high above their heads.”
“How could it?” Mary Ann scorned, “They’d never get into their carriages.”
“Oh yes, they could, Miss Cleversticks,” her grandfather laughed. “They knelt on the floor… think of that!”
“But three feet! How could it stand up that high?”
“Their coiffeuse would put a horsehair cushion on the top of their scalp and comb the lady’s hair, and possibly false hair, over it. To secure it they’d drive steel pins into the cushions. Then they’d be decorated with flowers or jewels or whatever the lady wanted. For the Ball of the Yew Trees they used sprigs of green yew.”
“What if they needed to scratch?”
“Ladies don’t scratch. Nevertheless, you’re quite right. Sometimes it must have been unbearable.
“They had long sticks with small ivory claws at the end. These reached right in so they could at least get some relief. Anyhow, stop interrupting, you wanted to know about the Ball of the Yew Trees.”
“Was it in the Hall of Mirrors?”
“Yes, the Galerie de Glace. Being such a long room the Queen commanded that an orchestra played at each end. Hundreds of candles reflected the dancers all along those looking glass walls. The paintings on the ceilings and golden scrolling round the windows turned that ballroom into a fairyland.”
“What was her dress like?”
“Let me think,” the old man paused and pursed his lips in concentration. “She wore emerald brocade with Brussels lace, the neckline was low and the sleeves slashed with velvet. Of course, everyone wore green masks. The most noble ladies and gentlemen of France had been invited. Always a de Guise would be there, close by. The Queen liked to have one of her kinsmen at her side.
“A great family indeed. De Guise is a name to be proud of, connected to every royal house in Europe, married into many a noble family in France. Such brave men, such great soldiers. Why, François de Guise became one of the most famous soldiers in Europe, François the Scarred was often called Le Balafré – twice so badly wounded he nearly died. Oh, a great family amongst all those other great families… Orléans, Bourbons, Longuevilles… the names are endless…” The old man’s eyes closed as he mused to himself. “Oh, a great family.”
“But the ball Grand-père, did you dance with the Queen?”
“The Queen had her favourites, remember I was very young, I had to assist with the guests, make sure every lady danced and any lady on her own had an escort for supper.” He paused. “Such suppers! There were boars’ heads with apples in their mouths, pheasants and quails and platters of meats arranged in all their colours so they looked more like tapestries than food. We were all so hungry by the time we went in that our mouths were watering. Because of course we had to wait for Her Majesty, and the Queen never wanted to stop dancing. Night after night she liked nothing better than the company of her friends, if it wasn’t dancing it was the opera, or playing cards, always the same friends.”
“Wish I had a friend,” grumbled Mary Ann, “I wish I had someone to play with.”
“Well, you’re not a queen, are you, or even a princess!” he smiled at her downcast face. “Her greatest friend was the Princess de Lamballes, a lovely woman with the face of an angel, kindest woman I’ve ever met. Seems like yesterday, my first day at court and me being so gauche and tongue-tied, remember I was no more than a lad. This charming lady came up to me and smiled, such eyes and hair as golden as the wheat. She held out her hand, and ladies would not usually do such a thing to a young unknown, of course, and she said, ‘Don’t concern yourself unduly, young sir, come and ask me anything you need to know.’ Ah! I think it’s nearly time for us to make for home, look at the shadows, they’re lengthening by the minute and….”
“You’ve not finished yet.”
“Oh yes, I have.”
“A de Guise never goes back on his word! You told me that. You’ve not finished yet.”
“I’ve told you about the Ball of the Yew Trees.”
Mary Ann pouted. “But it’s too soon to go back. Tell me about the Queen. Did she wear her crown when she got up in the morning? Did she wear it at breakfast? Did she say, ‘Off with his head’ if someone made her cross?”
Grand-père laughed and straightened up. “Never. She always acted according to etiquette. Remember she’d been trained to be a queen from the cradle. But like all little girls, she would have played around the palace just as you have your games out in the yard back at Bywong and now that’s enough! Time to go home. Your father will be wondering where on earth we’ve got to… and didn’t I feel the first drops of rain?”
“We could go down to that shepherd’s hut down there.”
“We could not, young miss. Even if he’s away with his flock it’s still his home. You can’t go pushing in like that.”
Flicking at the grasses with her crop Mary Ann followed him down from the hill to where their horses were tethered.
A contented smile touched her lips. She’d had her own way once again. Nothing was as exciting as her grandfather’s stories. The world that Grand-père conjured up became more real than the vast scorched plains and the distant shimmer of the lake. When life is lived in remote places there are none of the distractions of the crowd that buzzes and hums around a city dweller. When books are few and letters from the old country are months arriving, journals are pored over till the pages fall apart. There is a great emptiness that can only be filled with stories.
So much wisdom and knowledge to be handed down from generation to generation. Just as the Canberri and Ngunawal passed on the tales of Dreamtime sitting around their fires, so the white folk mulled over their memories whenever time hung heavily on their hands.
Grand-père rarely spoke of the past when the rest of the family were around, though. Perhaps the day-to-day problems took precedence over reminiscences, perhaps the bored looks that passed around the table whenever the conversation drifted back towards that distant time put him off. Alone amongst the grandchildren Mary Ann pounced upon every snippet the old man dropped.
“Filling the child’s head with all those fancies,” his son grumbled that evening when Mary Ann was telling her sister about the Ball of the Yew Trees. “Any daughter of mine needs to know her alphabet. If she’s not at her lessons she should be out helping in the dairy, not having her head filled with all those fancies. Don’t you agree, Charles?” More and more frequently William asked the opinion of his eldest son. He had become his father’s right-hand man.
“I’m sure you’re right, Father.”
“Now, son.” William wasn’t going to be distracted by the old man. “We’ve got to decide about whether we need that new harrow this year or can scrape by till next. Can you call by…”
“Father, I’m off tomorrow, off to Gundagai. I’ll think about it. Remember, you wanted me to look over that stock down the river.” Charles spent most of his time away, overseeing the scattered properties of the Guise family.
“Well, I still say we should not forget. It’s wrong to let everyday matters cloud our memories.” Richard was like a dog with a bone.
William gave an exasperated sigh. “Of course we ought to forget. What does our family need to know about those Frenchified ways. Think, Papa! You may have been Richard de Guise all that time ago, and you’ve told us often enough about the Duke de Guise and the family and so on, but soon it was plain Richard Guise and sometimes they even called you Richard Guys, remember? Times change.”
“Possibly. But the past is always with us. Remembering the past is what separates us from the animals, isn’t it? That is what makes us human beings.” He shrugged and looked down at his plate.
Mary Ann’s eyes sparkled as she stared at the old man. Grand-père was the only person she knew who said things like that. When everyone else talked about crops and cattle and the weather, and the latest gossip from Gundaroo fizzed around the table, he could be relied on to say something that made a person think.
Mary Ann liked to think. The great world outside their property enthralled her with its mystery. Why, where and when were the most used words in her vocabulary and she yearned to know more about that enthralling place. Much as she loved her family, her quicksilver mind wove circles around their placid contentment.
Each night the Guise family gathered round the large table in the kitchen for their evening meal. Ever since she could remember there had been sisters, brothers, cousins, and many a guest rubbed shoulders down its length. With the passing of the years, the marriages and some sad absences, there were no longer so many under the roof of Bywong. Her father, William, sat at the head of the table with her brother Charles on his right hand, Grand-père presided over the far end and in between she sat with her sister.