His (X) Mark
Today I held the last document that my great, great, great grandfather touched before he died. He died on the 30th of April 1858 and the day before his death, he lay in his bed with two trusted friends by his bedside and they wrote out his last will and testament for him.
The paper was taken from an exercise book. It was feintly lined, very thin, very browned with age. The beautiful inked writing on it had also faded to a muddy brown colour, giving the whole document an air of being weathered yet fragile. As I sat with white gloves holding the document I could almost step back into time, to a wooden house with a tin roof, heavy cedar furniture in the darkened bedroom, children sitting in the outer room speaking in hushed voices, knowing their father’s time was near.
I could see the two trusted friends; men of distinction from the district; men who had known my great great great grandfather for many years through many trials and tribulations. Men who respected his rise from convict to emancipist. Men who were now solemnly promising him they would ensure his last wishes were adhered to. Men whom he trusted the care of his youngest children to. I could see the Roman Catholic minister comforting his wife and family and speaking the words to him that he believed in. I saw him lying in the bed, a man old before his time, thinking on his past life, worrying about his children’s future, holding on to his faith and the thoughts that he would soon see his beloved Mary and his brother John. I saw him looking out the curtained window as the men left, watching the sunset, feeling it would be his last, hoping for just a little more time to spend with his family to tell them what they needed to hear.
The words of the will were hurried. They gave a sense of urgency, a sense of a man who had not been prepared for this sudden demise, a man who seemed to have been taken a little by surprise at the speed of his decline. I worried about the fragility of the paper and yet was amazed at it’s endurance over 155 years to find itself in an environment so alien from the one it was created in. The air conditioned sterility of the Archives Office was a far cry from the Australian outback during the gold rush period.
The environment I opened the will in was different to the one it was created in but the atmosphere could be said to be similiar to the one in the bedroom of so long ago. There were hushed tones in the room I sat in. There was respect of the age of the documents and the information they contained. There were people there who were in some way strangers, in another way, kindred; all sharing the same interests. And from me, a distant descendant of a man who I never knew yet know so much about, there was sadness and a definite sense of loss.
I touched the paper where he had signed it and saw this man for what I needed him to be. A grandparent who could teach me so much about endurance, loyalty, bravery, diligence, determination, dedication. As I traced his final marks with my fingers I wished I could have kept the papers in my bedside table, just to have him near me in some way for when I need him, but, as is the way with these wonderful documents, I slipped it slowly back into it’s envelope and gave it back to the Archives assistant.
After all, one day, my grandchildren will want to touch that same piece of paper and he needs to speak to them as well. A final mark from a man that echoes through the years has made a lasting impression on me.