The Hanging of Mary Ann

by Angela Badger

  Any thought of that strong body failing or that mind failing to grasp the last tiny detail was unbelievable. So why did she have to spend her day trailing behind her father when so much needed to be done at home?

  It wasn’t till they sat upon the rocks near the bridle path below Geary’s Gap that the first hint that Grand-père might have been right became apparent. Mopping his brow William took a deep draught from his water bottle. A cool wind tempered the sun’s unaccustomed heat day and the ride had not been arduous. Even so the lines etched upon his face deepened as his eyes took in the great expanse before him.

  Once again water gleamed in the lake, not very deep, but whilst upon his last visit some of the steers had been browsing a couple of miles out on the green expanse, now they were up nearer the Cullarin range. Further out where they had grazed a couple of months ago the sheet of water reflected clouds from on high.

  “It doesn’t seem possible, does, it Papa?”

  “Anything’s possible in this place. Admittedly the lake has always had its times. Sometimes fuller than others. But never before have we seen such a disaster as we’ve just had.

  “When I first laid eyes on Lake George back in ’33, musk duck, swans and herons were in their thousands. There were spoonbills and pelicans and we’d even see the brolgas doing their mad dances. The Canberri and the Ngunawal hunted along the shores. Now the blackfellows are just called the Lake George tribe, what’s left of them, poor devils.”

  “Were they hunted too, Papa?”

  “Not so around these parts. They sickened with the white mens’ ills, they lost their hunting grounds, many moved away. If anyone had listened, if anyone had even asked we surely would have learnt the lake’s secret, for they must have lived with it for generations and generations.”

  “What is its secret then?”

  “Ah,” he laughed, “that is its secret. The fact is that no one knows the truth about the lake, a true mystery. Some say there’s a great cleft at the bottom and the water drains away, some say it just dissolves into the air in drought years. No one knows, but at least all those old people would have been privy to it. What’s just happened is enough to shatter your faith in nature herself. But now it’s filling again, just look. I wouldn’t be surprised if we don’t see water right up to the base of the hills soon.”

  “And then we’ll have birds and fish again, and will the reeds all come back?”

  “They’ll come and the land that’s almost worthless now will yield a good return once more. We live with a riddle on our very doorstep, Mary Ann. We must learn to build up our fortunes during the good years to see us through the lean ones. Like it says in the Bible.”

  She looked at him sharply. Papa never mentioned the Bible. A listless quality flattened his voice and he stared across the lake with lacklustre eyes.

  He’d seen a true disaster. Nothing equals the dismay of humankind when faced with the betrayal of Nature. How can this happen? The framework of life should remain constant; rivers should flow, the sun should shine and lakes remain filled to their shores. How could the largesse of the land be offered one year and denied the next?

  He’d watched the struggles of the poorer settlers and followed the waning fortunes of the more wealthy ones. True, the Guise family kept afloat, didn’t they still have their lands at Liverpool, Macquarie Fields, the Monaro and up in the mountains. Admittedly, mostly mortgaged to the hilt, but they still owned them on paper. But his heart had always been at Bywong. On this property his mother and father had been happiest and he’d married and raised his own brood of children.

  Who would have guessed nature could be so fickle? Fear tugged at him, was it the eternal insecurity of the migrant? Born and bred as he might have been in this vast country, the stories of his father still remained with him. The home you had taken for granted could suddenly become a place of uncertainty. Danger snapped at your heels and sent you off far away. His father had been born and bred into prosperity and privilege. He would never have foreseen a time when the guillotine threatened and the mob howled for the blood of kith and kin.

  Admittedly here there’d never be the screaming mobs and the impassive faces of those who sat in judgement, but here there could be unbelievable changes in the world around you. Droughts, floods, lakes that filled and emptied on a whim leaving the dried bones of cattle bleaching in the sun. Then, that awful spectacle - financial ruin, and the stony faces of your creditors.

  William pondered as he watched Mary Ann walking along the new margin of the lake, pausing every so often to pick up a stone or examine a plant. Having been a child born and bred in this country, he understood her feelings. She had been eleven when her mother died and, being so close to her grandparents, had grown up with the ways of that generation. What would happen when he died? Grand-père wouldn’t live for ever. What then for Mary Ann? Three sons he’d fathered, and two in their graves, Charles forever occupied with the affairs of the family. Well at least he’d keep an eye on Bywong. If she wasn’t wed by then she’d have a home.

  He could not deny the evidence of his own body. One moment his whole frame shuddered with the cold, then next moment a sudden heat surged through him and his heart began to pound. During many a sleepless night he tossed and turned trying to come to a decision. Sell up? Who’d buy after those years of disaster which had left depleted flocks and empty pastures? If only Mary Ann was a few years older. She understood the running of the property like the back of her hand, but she’d never be able to manage on her own.

  Marriage! Marriage would settle so much, but on the other hand it could stir up a hornet’s nest. George Brownlow had become a constant visitor and Frank de Rossi’s intentions were obvious too. Of the two, his choice, and certainly Grand-père’s, would be Frank. They knew each other’s families and they understood the ups and downs of a squatter’s life. Mary Ann wasn’t seventeen yet, she had a few years to go before worrying about a husband. Perhaps by then she’d be wise enough to look on Frank with favour.

  With a sigh William rose and called to his daughter. Never the right time to make decisions, always the need for waiting and planning - but time was running out for him. More out of breath than usual he clutched at a nearby branch, cursing the sudden weakness in his legs. If he’d been in the city a physician could have been called. Some physick and a few days rest might settle the matter, for a while at least. But here? No time to take to his bed. Here he was the focus of everyone’s needs. The ministrations of Dr Morton had to suffice, good enough for infant sicknesses and childbirth, but now he could only smile and nod and hand out doses and pills.

  William sensed the shortening of his days, thank God he still had Charles, though it would be a heavy burden for a young man and so much would be left undecided. Impatient with himself he tried not to let them see the occasional tremor which took hold of his body. He knew he was failing. Grand-père looked the other way. There was no answer as he faced up to each day with every appearance of vigour but absenting himself at times for a doze and going to bed as soon as darkness fell.

  In the end you are on your own.

  And here was Mary Ann. With all the energy that the others had lost, and steadily gaining the knowledge that he himself had gathered over the years, would she be able to manage? It would be true to say she knew every hillock on the property, she certainly knew every tree and wombat hole. Would that knowledge be enough in this harsh world to enable her to manage the farm?

  “Storm’s coming, Papa,” Mary Ann interrupted his reverie. “Look at that lightning down south.”

  “Well, we’ll be home before it breaks. Can you hold the mare a moment.”

  Not a necessary request as his faithful old mare stood like a rock, but nowadays it took several attempts before he was comfortably in the saddle.

  “We’ll have stew tonight, Papa, I made some dumplings, just like Grand-mère used to do. We’ll have stew and dumplings.”

  “A good evening then, eh, Mary Ann?”

  Later that ni
ght the three of them were sitting by the fire. The storm had peaked and subsided but then gathered strength again; once more rain lashed down upon the shingles of the roof. A wind had risen and howled round the brick chimney and when the old clock began to strike nine o’clock Mary Ann gathered up her sewing. “It’s time you went too, both of you, don’t sit…”

  “Hush! What’s that?”

  Cutting through the moan of the wind and the chimes of the clock came the sound of horse’s hooves.

  “What’s that? Who can be calling at this hour?”

  Grand-père shifted uneasily as he looked across when his son jumped up and stood by the door. Several properties had been raided in the area, in the bad times those who had not been able to keep themselves and their families afloat had taken to the highways and byways with their rifles. Many a family had been relieved of all they owned in their own home. A solitary dwelling, the candlelight shining from the window, a family gathered together around the fireside were bait enough to tempt any prowling bushranger.

  William stood alert, someone shouted from the yard.

  “I know that voice!” He took the chain off the door.

  “Have a care, son,” his father warned. “Have a care. Put that chain back.”

  “Mr Guise! Mr Guise! I must speak!”

  “Bless me. It’s Frank de Rossi.” William threw open the door.

  Saturated and streaked with mud Frank grabbed the lintel to steady himself.

  “For heaven’s sake, man, out in this deluge! Were you caught on the road. How long have you been travelling? Come in, come in.” William half caught the other man as he stumbled over the threshold.

  “I have to speak.” Frank’s gaze met Mary Ann’s. “Yes, I was on the road. I was coming to speak on such a different subject. Later perhaps, but now is not the time.” Still his eyes held Mary Ann’s. Suddenly she understood. Knowing how she herself felt about George Brownlow, she recognised the longing in the man’s eyes.

  “Speak then, but sit down. Here, by the fire. I’ll fetch some dry things in a moment. What do you have to tell us?”

  Frank lowered his head, he did not want to see the pain he knew he was about to cause that family. “Your son.”

  “My son? Charles? What of him? He’s not home, he’s been away several weeks, he’d down at our property on the Murrimbidgee.”

  “Sir, the great river’s burst its banks. It’s roaring down in flood. There’s whole herds of cattle carried off in the torrent, there’s huge trees bobbing about like twigs and cottages and barns washed away and lost for ever.”

  “What?” William shouted. “What? What are you telling me?”

  “It’s said he left the party he was travelling with and went upstream in search of some straying cattle. He is lost.”

  Grand-père clutched his son’s arm, Mary Ann stood transfixed for one moment staring at her father. “Papa, oh Papa,” she gripped William’s other arm but her eyes were on Frank de Rossi. “How can you be so sure? How can you know?”

  “Those who understand the river better than I have told me this. I came as I did not want you to hear rumours and careless chatter.”

  “But this is only a rumour! This is just hearsay. Oh, dear Papa,” she guided him to his old armchair and then knelt with his hand in hers.

  Frank stared at them both.

  “The Murrumbidgee! Broke its banks!” No more needed to be said.

  In times of drought the mighty river might narrow down to a peaceful stream but when the rain came it swelled and roared and swept through the land with a vengeance all its own. Swirling muddy water would sweep away all that lay on either side in a vast moving maelstrom of destruction. Animals, haystacks, barns and the debris of forest, farm and plain that had lain upon its banks would be torn away and tossed into the flood. The monstrous flood of brown heaving water swept all before it.

  “But no one has seen him? Seen the… seen any sign of poor Charles?” Mary Ann had to speak for the others. Her father sat silent, her grandfather’s face veiled in shadow. “Then how could you, sir? How could you come with this news when no one knows for a fact, no one knows!” Her anger began to rise. In fact the anger was rooted in their terrible loss. Something inside her told her that she had heard the truth.

  A flash of memory. Job’s prediction. The death of the firstborn. Rage throbbed through her. Rage and frustration that screamed out to be vented but it was her father’s stricken face which really gripped her.

  Shock stripped his features down to the bone. His eyes glittered with the intensity of emotion welling up as his lips mouthed words that would never be said, words too desperate for any ears to hear. He had lost his last son.

  “How could you come like this! How could you know?”

  “Those who were with him saw him ride away. Miss Mary Ann, that was two days ago and no more has been heard.”

  “People are found days after a flood. You know that, sir. A woman was caught in the Yass river. She hung on amongst the boughs of a tree for over three days.”

  “The river’s a raging torrent, Miss Mary Ann. You’ve never seen anything like it in your life. Boiling, swirling, brown with mud, branches, trees. The whole world’s on the move. No one would stand a chance.”

  “I don’t believe it. Charles is so used to the river and everything thereabouts, he’s seen floods before, he’d not put himself in danger like that.”

  “No one has seen a flood like this one.”

  “I think you are wrong. Wrong! Wrong! Wrong!” She flew from the room.

  But the next weeks proved that Frank de Rossi had not made a mistake. Although the body of Charles Guise was never found, neither did the living man ever appear again and with the loss of his last son the father turned his face to the wall.

  CHAPTER 8

  The making of a will is an undertaking of no mean importance. It can be the testator’s last chance to turn the tables on those left behind or an opportunity to set matters straight within a family.

  Seen from any angle it is a human being’s final act to leave their mark on the world.

  Fighting back the pain William forced himself to consider how his properties must be divided. How straightforward the task had been only weeks before! He could have trusted his son with all that belonged to the Guise family: Grand-père, daughters, nephews, nieces, all would have been watched over and cared for.

  Now he shied away from the considerations. His chest ached, his eyes were tired and he longed for sleep and forgetfulness. The task was too great - but he could not turn his back. How much longer did he have? Shaken to his very core by the terrible loss, he noticed with distaste how his hand shook as time and again he took up the pen, then put it down from sheer exhaustion.

  Constantly the temptation to confide in Grand-père nagged at him. Throughout his life his father had advised and guided, but now? Only Dr Morton knew his secret.

  Time and again the words almost came to him as now more than ever he needed that sage advice, but he was determined with his last breath to save the old man such a worry. William could not bring those terrible fears into the light of day. Whatever was ailing him might possibly pass, Dr Morton seemed to think an old inflammation of the lung persisting from the winter caused the breathlessness. “Time, sir, time, that is what we need. The current damp is not helping. Our constitutions suffer with these violent changes of atmosphere, believe me. The mind plays a sovereign part in our health too, and you’ve had such tragedy, such blows as might fell a lesser man.”

  As William sat with his papers his old father shook his head.

  “Why burden yourself now. Wait a while, son. ‘Tis too soon. Granted, none of us could have foreseen… well, even imagined such a terrible thing. But don’t burden yourself further just at this moment. I know ’tis a job that must be done. Though, God willing, there’ll be many more years before we need to worry about all this.”

  “Father! How easy it should have been. Only weeks ago there’d have been no two ways
about it. Matters must be settled, our family must be protected. Protected against accident or anything else. I must have a Will.”

  “The good Lord gives and he takes away. Remember. You’ve got sensible daughters and their husbands are fine men. No need to worry. Be grateful for what you’ve got, my son, with Mary Ann being such a help.”

  “If only she was a boy.”

  “Now that’s a silly sort of thing to say. That girl, well provided for, is the equal of many a man, I’d say.”

  His father watched on as William procrastinated and silently mourned the losses which had reduced their family circle to a mere echo of the past.

  Sticks and stones, chattels, stock on the hoof and crops in the ground can all be disposed of in a neat orderly fashion but there is that other factor, that essential vagary of human nature, which no one can foresee. That unknown quantity - those who become allied by marriage - certainly not strangers, often much loved, but all the same they are not of your flesh and loyalties can be fickle.

  Due consideration must be given to those in-laws, that unknown band of half-relatives which slowly collects around a family. Those accommodating human beings who chatter like a flock of starlings at marriages and christenings but descend like vultures when death intervenes.

  They are wary, always watching that others do not overstep their mark and curry too much favour. Nearly everyone has a selection of in-laws but those who gather about a man of wealth become more evident as the years roll by.

  Sons! Without a son and heir William sighed over the complexity of making his final testament. To have even one son to take over the reins would have been a blessing. So he apportioned his land as best he could, knowing he would leave them very well endowed. But much depended upon the families into whom they married. Well he had a pretty good idea of his elder daughters’ circumstances, but what of the marriage yet to be made? How to secure his last daughter’s inheritance against any unscrupulous fortune-hunter?