The Hanging of Mary Ann. Angela Badger

Published by Brolga Publishing Pty Ltd ABN 46 063 962 443 PO Box 12544 A’Beckett St Melbourne, VIC, 8006 Australia

      email: [email protected]

      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