A Few Right Thinking Men (12 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Pull Lang's Nose

Senator Hardy Talks Big

YASS, Monday

“It would give me great pleasure to go to Macquarie Street and pull Lang out by the nose,” said Senator Hardy, addressing a meeting of farmers.

He added that trades-unionism and city capitalism was not going to help the country man in the least.

The Canberra Times
, January 12, 1932

Rowland tapped the nails back in with the handle of the screw-
driver.

Clyde looked at him. “Clearly, your brother's serious about this secret army thing. Is he planning to march on Parliament?”

Rowland shook his head. “No…they're just stockpiling to halt the advance of the Red Army. Wil must think Stalin has his eye on Yass.”

Milton sniggered, but even he was unnerved.

“Shouldn't we do something?” Edna asked tentatively, aware that his brother's involvement put Rowland in a very unpalatable position.

“I'll talk to Wil.” Rowland glanced at Milton. “Don't get into any more fights,” he advised. “They're probably all carrying guns.”

“Wonderful.” Clyde shook his head. “The countryside is teeming with Fascist lunatics, all armed to the teeth.”

“People out here have always had guns”—Rowland spoke more casually than he felt—“mostly, they shoot rabbits.”

Milton's brow arched. “So they've been practising.”

They walked to the car, in a mood that was decidedly subdued, and Rowland drove them straight back to the Royal. He shook Milton's hand as they parted. “Remember, try not to be noticed until we can get out of here.”

“Don't worry.” Milton winked. “I'll be good.”

Rowland smiled. “Just try being quiet.”

***

The Sinclair brothers spent the following morning at the offices of Kent, Beswick and Associates. There were papers to sign to settle their uncle's substantial estate. Rowland was content to allow Wilfred to make the decisions, despite his growing doubts as to his brother's judgment in other respects. Indeed, even as the learned gentlemen talked and advised, Rowland's mind drifted back to the rifles packed in the piano crates. It was difficult to fathom what Wilfred could be thinking. He wondered if the Old Guard was dangerous. For some reason he found that hard to believe, regardless of the arsenal in the shearing shed.

Having signed whatever was put in front of him, Rowland followed his brother out into the main street. They were to attend a lecture of some sort, sponsored by the local Graziers' Association. Rowland trailed unenthusiastically behind as Wilfred walked briskly toward the Soldiers' Memorial Hall, wondering all the time what had made him agree to spend the next hour stuck in a disquisition about the marvels of the wool clip. Still, he hoped, it might give him the opportunity to speak to his brother about the guns, though he had no idea what he could possibly say to make Wilfred see sense. Nothing he'd said, thus far, had had any impact whatsoever. Short of setting the shearing shed on fire, there was nothing Rowland could think of to get rid of the weapons himself. He pondered if it was illegal to have so many guns—he wasn't sure.

The main street had become densely crowded in the time they had been at the solicitors'—there were hundreds of men gathering near the Hall's entrance. Rowland began to pay attention. Surely sheep and fodder couldn't be this exciting.

Wilfred led the way through the press of bodies, many in the crowd stepping back to allow them to pass.

They stopped outside the two-storey hall building. No expense had been spared in the construction of the memorial, raised in honour of the district's fallen and returned soldiers. It was a large building, but not so large it would hold the crowd already gathered in the street outside it. Rowland could now see the men on the freestone balcony above the columned entrance. He assumed they were waiting to speak. There was an unmistakable air of anticipation.

A soloist, a baritone, opened the proceedings with “God Save the King.” Rowland scanned the gathering—an excessive, but respectable, congregation of the middle and upper classes. Many kept their jackets on despite the oppressive heat in the January sun. They sang the anthem with something akin to religious fervour, as they clutched their hats over their hearts.

The Mayor of the Yass Shire stepped forward to introduce the speakers, the first being a local of sorts, Harold McWilliamson. He spoke of the plight of rural New South Wales labouring under the weight of its Socialist government, the insanity of the Lang Plan and the economic disaster it would wreak. By the time he sat down again, the crowd was ringing vocal in support of McWilliamson's indictment of the Premier. Rowland watched, keenly observant, eye and mind recording faces and figures, movement and manner. He reached inside his jacket for his notebook. Wilfred's eye caught him and a warning jerk of his head stayed Rowland's hand.

The mayor introduced the second speaker, Senator-elect Charles Hardy Jr. of Wagga Wagga. Rowland was immediately alert to the name: it had been mentioned in the library, when the Old Guard met at Oaklea. It seemed Wilfred was still trying to recruit him.

Charles Hardy was a handsome man in his early thirties, whose strong smiling face appealed to men and women alike. His suit and hair were well cut, and his eyes, piercing. He stepped forward with the relish of a natural orator and he began. The crowd, already warmed to his message, became a chorus of concurrence as he launched his attack on Communism.

Suddenly, unexpectedly, a dissident emerged. The challenger pushed in from the back. He wore no tie and pinned prominently to his lapel was a large Soviet badge, clearly visible in its red and yellow. Rowland was both surprised and intrigued. So, this was one of the mysterious Communists that his brother believed were lurking around every corner.

The crowd surged against the radical, but then Hardy called for calm. He engaged the man in debate. What ensued was an extraordinary exchange between the leader of the Riverina Movement and a man who expressed all of the classically attributed sentiments of a Socialist intent on a workers' revolution. Still, Hardy persisted with his impassioned rhetoric, appealing to the man's sense of patriotism and country. In the end, the Communist tore off his badge, threw it to the ground and stomped upon it, in a public declaration of political conversion. Hardy welcomed him to the congregation of right thinking men and the hall broke into applause, as one more soul was brought back to the path of loyalist righteousness.

Rowland was dumbfounded. He leant over to Wilfred.

“Who is that? Is he a local?” He motioned toward the man who was a Communist no more.

Wilfred rolled his eyes. “You'll find he's attached to the O'Brien Publicity Company,” he replied under his breath.

“What?”

“Let's just say he's been to a number of Hardy's rallies—that badge of his has been trodden on a few times now.”

Rowland laughed out loud, but sobered quickly under Wilfred's glare. It appeared that though Wilfred did not applaud the pantomime, he had no intention of decrying it either.

With the erstwhile Communist now firmly in his support, Charles Hardy addressed the street again. He proclaimed himself an unashamed Fascist. “There are perilous signs, my friends, that the constitutional government of New South Wales is on the cusp of collapse, leaving us in a state of national emergency.” Hardy paused dramatically, waiting till the silence was absolute and every ear strained for his next words. “The Premier's financial misrule, with hundreds of thousands of unemployed primed for an upheaval of social disorder, makes chaos a likelihood, far more than a possibility!”

The crowd responded on cue with shouts of horror and agreement. “If this calamity occurs, my friends, the Riverina Province Council will be ready to undertake immediate self-government!”

“What's the Riverina Province Council?” Rowland asked Wilfred.

“The need for a provisional government is a sad reality, Rowly.” Wilfred didn't take his eyes away from Hardy. “Charles Hardy is not the only man to see it. It's simply a matter of time before Lang's administration collapses.”

“You're all mad,” Rowland muttered. Wilfred chose not to reply.

Hardy continued, berating the “worst elements of the community” who, clothed as workers, were trying to set up a Soviet state on the pattern of Russia. He explained that in such dire circumstances the Movement had to be prepared, indeed was prepared, to defend the country and install the Province Council to govern the Riverina. It appeared clear to Rowland that Hardy was styling himself as some kind of dictator of the region. The crowd was with the senator. There were shouts for immediate action. Hardy was living up to his title as the “Cromwell of the Riverina.”

Hardy leaned over the balcony and pointed at a man who had just called of action. “By all that is good and holy, you are right!” He slammed his fist on the stone balustrade. “It is time those godless Red terrorists knew the wrath of right thinking men! It is time they knew they are not wanted here, that we will not tolerate them among our wives and daughters.”

The roar that ripped down the street was deafening.

“Let every Communist traitor be on notice,” Hardy declared. “You have till midday to leave the patriotic district of Yass!”

The crowd cheered. Someone began a chorus of “For He's a Jolly Good Fellow” and soon five-hundred-odd men sang it with one voice. Hardy looked down from the balcony, a messiah before his people.

Rowland thought the ultimatum presumptuous, considering Hardy was not from Yass, but it was just rhetoric. Even so, it would be wise if his friends headed back to Sydney soon…very soon.

“Come on.” Wilfred grabbed Rowland's arm and jostled him through the throng toward the building. He ushered his brother inside, past the vestibule where Aubrey Sinclair's name was inscribed in marble, and up the staircase to the second floor. Hardy was still on the balcony. Wilfred spoke to someone from the Graziers' Association, who stepped out to fetch the leader of the Riverina Movement. It was several minutes before Hardy tore himself away from his crowd to come inside.

“Sinclair! Good to see you.” He took Wilfred's hand between both of his.

“Charles,” said Wilfred warmly, “I see your election to the national parliament hasn't stemmed the flow of men to the Movement. To the contrary.” He glanced out of the window at the men now lining up outside to join Hardy's cause.

“New South Wales is still in the hands of Lang.” Hardy looked down proudly at the new recruits. “Precarious times need stout-hearted men.”

The clock in the post office tower struck twelve, the chimes barely audible over the still-cheering crowd.

Just as Wilfred introduced Rowland, Harold McWilliamson approached with two other members of the Graziers' Association, and joined the conversation. As usual, Rowland attempted to remain politely neutral.

Presently, Wilfred pulled Hardy aside leaving Rowland in the company of the graziers, who were still railing about the scourge of Jack Lang. They occasionally looked to Rowland for a grunt of agreement, but otherwise he was not called to participate to any great extent. His attention was in any case drawn to Wilfred and Hardy. The pair spoke earnestly, but he could not catch what they were saying. He could see the increasing tension in Wilfred's neck. The discussion was becoming strained, and then Wilfred's voice raised enough for Rowland to overhear “Campbell.” Hardy responded calmly, but he seemed resolute. Wilfred was clearly annoyed.

Quite suddenly, Wil turned on his heels, leaving Hardy standing there, and motioned to Rowland to follow him down the stairs.

“What was all that about?”

“The Riverina Movement is full of good men, many of them ours,” Wilfred responded curtly. “But Hardy is making alliances with Campbell, and Campbell is as dangerous as the bloody Communists.”

“Oh.” It occurred to Rowland that perhaps these good men were confused as to which secret Fascist army they belonged, but he decided against voicing this.

As they walked out, Rowland noticed that the crowd had, in large part, dispersed or moved on. “Looks like everyone went home to check their sheds for Communists.”

From behind them came a laugh. The brothers turned. It was McWilliamson. “They didn't need to go that far, son. Apparently some Red blew in from the city.” He glanced at his pocket watch. “It's twenty past twelve.”

Rowland stared at him, horrified. Surely he could not be serious. Surely Hardy could not have been serious.

“The boys went to get him from the Royal about a quarter of an hour ago.” McWilliamson smiled, his moustache bristling as he inhaled the patriotic atmosphere of the street with gusto.

Rowland began to run but Wilfred grabbed his arm and pulled him back.

“Let me go, Wil!” He wondered if Wilfred's conversation with Hardy had been orchestrated to keep him occupied, while a mob went after Milton.