An extract of the Newcastle Chronicle of June 1870 reported
‘The death of Mr Archibald Rodgers took place on Saturday evening 11th June. On 3rd of that month Mr Rodgers, while superintending the lowering of a ponderous iron cylinder in the foundry yard, the palm of his left hand was accidentally crushed between the descending cylinder and another cylinder that lay on the ground close by. Although all was done that medical skill could devise to save the limb, it was found on Wednesday morning that mortification had set in to such an extent as to necessitate the hand being amputated at the wrist. This operation was successfully performed on Thursday by Dr’s Bowker, Dagner and Hector. On the following day, symptoms of tetanus appeared, and on Saturday Mr Rodger’s medical attendant perceived a change in the worse in him and, at once, apprehended that in all probability he would not live unless a change for the better took place. On Saturday his suffering increased considerably, and articulation became painfully difficult. His consciousness was not much affected till evening when he became slightly delirious and at intervals seemed not to know those around him. He recovered consciousness about 2 hours before he expired and appeared to have recognised some of his family. A few hours prior to his death, the Rev Mr Bain read him the 34th Psalm and engaged in prayer for him. Mr Rodgers was born in the village of Barnyards, parish of Kilconquatar, Fife Shire, Scotland in the year 1814 and was slightly over 56 years of age when he died. His father was an elder in the Original Succession Presbyterian Church at Barnyards, and also superintendent of the Sabbath School in connection with the same church. He therefore had the advantage of an early religious education and ever since he was 10 years old he took delight in imparting similar instruction to the young.’
On the day he was buried all the flags of shipping in Newcastle Port flew at half mast, as a mark of respect.
Alison stood at the graveside in Honeysuckle Cemetery and sobbed and sobbed. She felt so bereft. She had barely cried when her Mum had gone, though the ache in her heart was like a knife and, when Archie followed soon after, it had hurt double.
But then she knew she had to be strong for her Da. Now it felt as if her whole life was ripped away. Helen hugged her, Alex and James hugged her, her sisters proffered comfort, and she felt their kindness, but all she could feel was the void.
A week ago her Da joked with her, as he walked over to the yard for the day, to remove the cast from that hateful lump of iron that wounded him.
Then, the awfulness as they cut away his hand, while they fed him whisky and gave him a piece of wood to bite, to hold inside him the screams. That final horror as she realised it was all to no avail, and seeing his body contorted with the spasms, until in the end he could not breathe. She had barely left his side for three days as she tried to will him strength, and when all was of no avail to ease his pain and give him comfort. Now there was just this mound of earth next to the river.
Suddenly she could not bear this place. All these years she had kept the rage inside, to do what was right, to help people; her brothers, her sisters, Helen, her Dad. And it had all turned to dust. She kicked the earth, she hit the hard rock of the gravestone with her hands till they bled. Then she screamed her rage at a God. How could he give her things to love then rip them all away? She hated it all, and she hated Him, for letting it happen.
Suddenly she knew what she would do. She would go, back to her beloved Balmain, where she knew that Tom and Mary, now stooped with age, kept her beloved cottage, and she would not come back, not ever.
She dried her eyes and walked back to the house, her face set in steel. The wake was going on in the living room but she ignored it. Instead she went to her bedroom, gathered her few most treasured possessions and a change of clothes. She wrote a short note, left it on the kitchen table and walked over to the wharf.
A coastal shipper was taking on a load of wool for Sydney. It would leave on the outgoing tide that afternoon. She knew the captain, an old friend of her father’s and of Tom and Mary.
“Miss Alison, I am so sorry about your Dad. Can I help you at all?”
She gave him a brittle smile. “I just want passage to Sydney. Can I travel with you?”
His face burst into a broad grin. “Why of course you can, time to leave this old town is it? There’s a spare cabin forehead.” She pulled out her purse to pay him, but he waved it away. “No girl, I can na take your money. Tis the least I can do, to see you safe home to Tom and Mary.”