In a Great Southern Land

by Mary-Anne O'Connor

  The next witness was grilled about licence burning and Stawell made quite a deal over the fact that Joseph didn’t have a licence when he was arrested and must have burnt his; however, the defence made the court chuckle once more by suggesting it might have fallen out while he was trying not to get shot. Stawell was red-faced with anger now.

  ‘He was breaking the law, which is an act of sedition! He had taken up arms behind a barricade and was witnessed firing against soldiers of the Crown, which is treason. Therefore he must be found to be guilty.’

  That concluded the case for the prosecution and the judge asked the defence if they would like to call their first witness.

  ‘We have no witnesses, Your Honour.’

  It was an astoundingly brazen tactic, to rest so heavily on the jury’s sympathy, but the concluding statement was so brilliantly delivered it soon made sense.

  ‘Do you really think that this man, this simple field worker from Jamaica, would be capable of plotting to overthrow the Queen of England?’ They’d obviously schooled Joseph to look as dim-witted as possible as he began to scratch his head and adopted a very docile expression. There was a lot of sniggering around the court and, even though it offended Liam that they were suggesting the man was simple because he had dark skin, the strategy was seeming to work. By the time they’d concluded, Liam was feeling optimistic for an acquittal but Stawell wasn’t done.

  ‘Are we to assume that because this man is a man of colour he has no independent thoughts? That he is innocent of firing his gun? You have witnesses that have told you…’

  ‘Liars!’ called out one man from the back and the judge ordered silence in the court.

  ‘You have to do your duty,’ Stawell concluded, ‘and you know what that duty is.’

  Then the judge made it worse by pointing out that the prisoner had made no effort to remove himself from the situation and was there willingly. ‘The Crown has proven his character, now you must discharge your duty, as has been said.’

  The jury filed out to make their decision after that and Liam looked over at Dave and shrugged. ‘I thought they’d won it but then the judge…’

  ‘Aye. He’s thrown a spanner in the works now. Come on, let’s grab a quick smoke.’

  The mood in the corridor was likewise doubtful among the defence lawyers and press but Stawell and his team looked quietly confident, even smug. Liam was starting to think the miners would face more deaths after all but then the jury returned and it was clear a quick, unanimous decision had been reached. Although which way it had fallen was impossible to tell.

  The court was completely silent as the head juror stood and the judge addressed him gravely.

  ‘Have you reached your verdict?’

  ‘We have, Your Honour.’

  ‘And what say you?’

  There was a pregnant pause before the words swept across the room. ‘Not guilty.’

  Relief flooded across Joseph’s face and the courtroom erupted in cheering and shouts of victory. Ireland and his team went to shake Joseph’s hand, who was crying now. A jubilant Dave clapped Liam on the back, saying, ‘Get a load of Stawell’s face,’ which Liam observed was so incredulous it made him laugh.

  Joseph was escorted from the room by a triumphant throng and Dave and Liam followed them out to watch the reaction of thousands of people who now celebrated in the streets, hugging and cheering at the news that the first man had been set free. It was a victory for democracy. An open piece of defiance against English oppression, and one that held political clout, at last.

  The crowd lifted Joseph on a chair and paraded him down the streets of Melbourne and Liam felt an enormous shift take place in that moment. Something had been born today, something unique now to this place, this Australia. The people had said yes to a common man’s right to exist and to his right to defend himself against elitist tyranny. It would change things, he knew, because the general public had tasted power, and with it came the knowledge that anyone else involved in the rebellion could be acquitted too.

  And that realisation gave Liam something he needed more than anything else right now: another reason to hope.

  Forty-Four

  Warrnambool, March 1855

  The sun shone across the deep blue ocean beyond the cliffs, as peaceful and as smooth as a mirror that morning, although the great waves that battered the rocks were still at play. They never ceased in their enormous flinging and fanning, terrifying yet breathtaking too. Eileen wondered how Amanda felt about watching it as she observed her wandering along ahead then pausing to stare out. The breeze lifted the hair away from her pretty face and Eileen knew deep thoughts ran beneath it, but thoughts of who?

  Was it the husband who’d perished out there only months before? Was it the man who’d carried her up from the cove and so tenderly cared for her as she recovered? Was it someone else? The last thought had begun to visit her since Liam had been away, or more accurately since she’d mentioned Kieran’s name, and Amanda had turned quiet and withdrawn ever since, although strangely it didn’t seem like disapproval that drove her behaviour. It seemed more and more like guilt furrowing the woman’s brow, which puzzled Eileen immensely. What would she have to feel guilty about? It wasn’t her brother who’d got himself messed up with the rebellion. She had nothing to do with him.

  ‘Amanda,’ Eileen called but she didn’t turn around. ‘Amanda,’ she tried again.

  Amanda did turn towards her then, holding back her hair self-consciously, and Eileen walked over to stand by her side. ‘You seem very thoughtful. Everything alright?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Amanda said, shrugging but not meeting her eyes. ‘I just get melancholy by the sea.’

  ‘Well, that’s understandable,’ Eileen replied, ‘you’ve had a terrible experience. It would be strange not to be affected by it.’

  Amanda nodded but as they turned to stroll back to the house it wasn’t her belly that she held onto, as she so often did these past few weeks, it was her wrist. And something in the way she rubbed at it made Eileen wonder what memories she was really trying to push away.

  The boys were playing cricket with Rory out in the front paddock and Backy the cow watched on, flicking her ears with interest whenever the ball was hit her way. Eileen’s husband had never really made time for such things back in Ireland but nowadays he took things a bit easier. Living by the sea seemed to have mellowed them all. If she didn’t have the constant worry over Kieran plaguing her, Eileen would have said they were content here. Leaving Orange really had given them all a fresh start and although a day never passed that she didn’t mourn her little girl she’d made her peace with it too. There were plenty of blessings in her life and she smiled as Matthew finally connected his too-large bat with the ball and Rory cheered him on as he ran between wickets, dropping his bat altogether in his excitement.

  The worry she felt over Kieran was now flowing into her concern for Amanda, the connection still puzzling her, but she was trying not to think about it today. Liam was in Melbourne with Dave, and a few others he said knew their brother, and she was certain something would come of it. She’d even go as far as to say she knew it, somehow. Maybe it was some kind of blood connection, a Clancy intuition. Or maybe it was simply superstition because a kookaburra had sat on the rail and sung to them all that dawn.

  Eileen shoved it all aside for a moment, regardless, enjoying watching her boys for a little while longer before walking back to the house to get the dinner on. Amanda was outside, staring at the horizon from her chair on the porch, her knitting idle in her lap.

  ‘Those booties won’t knit themselves,’ Eileen told her as she approached.

  ‘Oh,’ Amanda said with a start. ‘I think I’m getting a bit soft in the head.’

  ‘It’s the baby,’ Eileen told her, ‘I always got vague towards the end too.’

  ‘Want some help with dinner?’ Amanda asked, rising slowly and changing the subject. Eileen had told her the story of her own stillborn baby and Amanda always t
actfully redirected any conversation that dwelled on her own pregnancies. She was very considerate like that.

  ‘Only if you sit down. I’ll not have you trying to stoke that fire like yesterday.’ She was a hard worker too. In fact, Amanda really knew her way around a household for a gently brought-up woman. ‘Did the papers arrive then?’ Eileen added, seeing some on the bench as they walked in.

  ‘No, Parsons just gave me some old ones to read to give me something to do.’

  Eileen picked one up. ‘Liam will enjoy these; we didn’t get The Age until this year,’ she said, scanning a few lines. ‘Huh! How’s this? The licence fees will surely be abolished under this new governor. There’ll be no need for violence over this issue once sense has prevailed.’

  ‘Yes, some of it is most ironic,’ Amanda said, although a shadow passed over her face once more. The one that echoed with guilt.

  They went about their tasks then, cutting vegetables and meat and kneading damper for the oven, an Australian food they’d all taken to enjoying on a daily basis. Eileen chatted away but Amanda was quiet until the subject of gravy came up.

  ‘I can make that if you like. Mrs Matthews used to say…’

  She stopped abruptly, her face suddenly flaming.

  ‘Who’s Mrs Matthews?’

  ‘Our…our old housekeeper. She taught me how to make gravy years ago with her mother’s own recipe.’

  Eileen stared at her, trying to read what was really going on. ‘Why would a housekeeper teach a lady such a thing?’

  Amanda looked even more flustered now. ‘Oh…just to pass the time, I suppose.’

  ‘You know, you seem to be adept at a lot of things that I wouldn’t have expected, Amanda. You can knit and sew, cook and clean. It seems a strange thing for a servant to teach her young mistress how to wait on others.’

  ‘Yes, I suppose…’ Amanda said but she was looking to the door towards escape now. ‘I think I might just have a lie-down…’

  ‘Is there something you’re not telling us?’ Eileen interrupted, getting a bit fed up with all the mystery now.

  Amanda stood and Eileen noticed she was trembling.

  ‘Oh, now…oh, dear, don’t take on so,’ Eileen said, immediately sorry for her bluntness. ‘I don’t mean to pry…it’s just that I get the feeling, well, I can see you’re carrying something difficult inside and I don’t think it’s just about your husband, is it? Something’s bothering you, Amanda. You can trust me if you need to let it out; I won’t judge you, I promise.’

  Amanda hesitated and for a moment Eileen thought she would open up but then her mask slipped back in place and she shook her head. ‘No, no, I’m just tired and probably a bit vague, as you said. Excuse me,’ she said, making her exit, and Eileen sat back down, staring at the door.

  Why so much secrecy? Why not just open and up and tell the truth? Then she remembered how she had felt, after losing her daughter. The months of grieving, her retreat into silence. Perhaps it was only Amanda’s grief that plagued her and the guilt that can come with it, especially if you’d survived when others had perished.

  Eileen stared at the papers and vaguely began flicking through them, thinking about all that had transpired and reflecting that yesterday’s news often felt more like fiction than fact. It was all just stories, after all, and everyone had them to tell, a long line of them that linked together to form the tale of a life. Then she saw an illustration of a couple in the pages, telling the end of two such tales, of a man and a woman who had perished at sea.

  An English sea captain and his dark-haired wife.

  Rory stared at the black-and-white image and Eileen watched various emotions cross his face: confusion, shock, some anger. ‘Why don’t you just confront her straight out?’

  Eileen shook her head. ‘No, she needs to confess it herself when she’s ready,’ she said, having decided that almost immediately. ‘She has her reasons why she’s using an alias, and she’s obviously got plenty to hide, but confronting her isn’t the answer. We can’t take the chance that she might run off this late in her pregnancy and lose her baby through lack of care. I wouldn’t wish that on anybody.’

  ‘Aye,’ Rory said, sighing now as he watched his sons play. ‘We can’t have her doin’ that.’

  ‘She’s proven herself hardworking and she doesn’t put on airs and graces, which says something about her character, I suppose, but she’d better have a damn good reason for doing this to us… and especially to Liam,’ Eileen said, heated now as she mentioned her brother. ‘He deserves more than a bunch of lies.’

  ‘Whoever she is it’s no’ the baby’s fault that she’s done what she’s done.’

  ‘Aye,’ Eileen agreed, staring back at the house. ‘The sins of the mother cannot be cast upon the daughter or son.’

  Forty-Five

  Melbourne, March 1855

  The day was finally here: the trial of Timothy Hayes.

  After a second man was found not guilty Stawell had been swift to use his clout as Attorney General and had the jury and judge both sacked, and new ones appointed. The jury were an unknown quantity but the judge was one of Stawell’s personal friends, a Mr Redmond Barry, something that had greatly angered the defence lawyers and their supporters.

  It had meant a three-week delay during which time the journalists at The Age, Blair and Symes, had done everything they could to further incite public outrage and build support for the remaining prisoners. Commentary on the unfairness of having such an elitist form of democracy sat alongside articles condemning Stawell and Hotham himself, to the point that suggestions were being made in the newspapers to ban the state prosecution altogether.

  Meanwhile, the two reporters had taken to speaking openly in the streets, stirring the crowds by reminding them that the miners had been forced to defend themselves against violent thugs, as many knew the traps and redcoats to be. Public sympathy was easily garnered there – the corrupt forces weren’t only the bane of miners. Blair, in particular, was very vocal that the public demand Hotham himself give the prisoners amnesty and spare their lives, considering his forces were at fault, with no further trials to be held. But held they would be and today it would be Hayes who would stand, Stawell’s best hope of a conviction, and he had insisted it not be delayed again.

  However, there was more at stake here than one man’s life, or indeed the lives of the other ten. The freedom that had swept through Melbourne those few short weeks ago had gained momentum. This was history in the making. This was for the rights of every Australian now, the right to have a voice.

  ‘Listen to this,’ Liam said as they sat and read the paper outside the court, waiting to go in, ‘Who are the traitors? The sets of officials at the heads of our government departments, up to His Excellency himself, are public servants, and if they turn against society, plot against its liberties, goad with an insolent and petty tyranny, we say they are the traitors.’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ said Dave, dragging on his pipe. ‘Look out, it’s Macca again. Over here, ye gangly bastard!’ he called out.

  The miners present in the crowds had relaxed since the first two acquittals, figuring more arrests really were pretty unlikely now, although if Hayes were to be convicted they might change their minds. Macca ambled over through the crowd and shook their hands with a grin.

  ‘How’s it goin’, mate?’

  ‘Good, good. This here’s Liam Clancy, Kieran’s brother,’ Dave introduced him, ‘and this here is Macca, as smooth a talking colonial boy as you’ll ever meet.’

  ‘Nice to meet ya,’ Macca said. ‘Sorry to hear about Kieran. I’ve been keeping a lookout for ’im but no luck so far. Sure he’ll turn up though – probably still in hiding like a lot of fellas are.’

  ‘Aye, that’s what we’re praying for,’ Liam said. ‘Every acquittal is giving me hope, although today will be a tough fight.’

  ‘Are ye coming into the courthouse then?’ Dave asked Macca.

  ‘Nuh, happy to wait at the pub. Not keen on law
courts, to be honest. Bloody awful places in my experience.’

  ‘They’re scary alright,’ Liam agreed.

  ‘’Sides, got a mate just released from prison for nicking then falling off a bicycle. Spent a month in that useless hospital of theirs then, bam, three days in a cell and he’s out.’

  ‘Why’d they keep him so long in the hospital?’ Dave asked.

  ‘Got the handlebars straight in his you-know-what then it got infected and he screamed so much they thought he was dying. I reckon they kept him in there because they figured he’d never be comin’ out.’ The others laughed as he continued. ‘Said the poor bloke next to him didn’t sleep for days, only he couldn’t tell ’im to shut up because he’d been shot near the throat and couldn’t talk.’

  ‘Imagine that,’ Dave said, still half-laughing, ‘poor blighter. I’ll bet he never wanted to tell someone to shut his bloody trap more in his life.’

  ‘I’m reckoning ya right there. Anyway, best be off. Give Hayes a nod for me, won’t ya?’

  People were beginning to pile through the doors so they set off too, bribing the same guard as before and moving into the courtroom.

  The new jury and judge were soon in place and Liam noted that Stawell’s smug expression was back, as was his ferocious and passionate language, and he opened with a damning tirade directed towards a beaten-looking Hayes, the prisoner’s anxious wife looking on.

  ‘Not only was this man the chair of the meeting on November twenty-ninth last year, he was also heavily armed and drilled the men in a warlike manner,’ Stawell stated, his gaze sweeping across the jury. ‘Hayes incited them to burn their licences with him and he did all of this under a flag other than the Union Jack.’

  There was a stir around the court as he concluded and the first witness was brought in, a trooper by the name of Mr Goodenough, which set Dave off into chuckles. This was further enhanced as they overheard someone in the press mutter the man’s nickname, ‘Judas Iscariot’.

  Stawell’s questions started predictably enough: were you there that day? Do you recognise the accused? But then he reached beneath the bench and took out something that made the crowd gasp: it was the flag itself, somewhat torn apart by soldiers seeking souvenirs that fateful day, but still large enough to impress the crowd in its audacity as Stawell held it high. He wasn’t only fired up today, he was quite the showman. Then he asked Goodenough if he’d heard what Hayes had said to the crowd that fateful day.