“Now what is it ye want? Git out of me kitchen,” she shouted. “You men ain’t allowed here.”
“Now don’t be after being angry me darlin’,” he pleaded. “It’s a cup or two of tea I’m lookin’ for. I’m perishing from the thirst.”
“Well, get along out and perish in a corner. There’s no tea nor coffee brewed at three in the morning. You’re no Irish anyway. You’re …”
“I’m Nat Bonnay, sweet. And I must have a gallon or two of tea. Now, don’t be violent wid me. I tell you what. I’ll play on me gum leaf for you. Listen!”
Dropping the sandwich to the table, he produced a leaf. The house cook advanced one, two steps, towards him. She halted, swayed on her great slippered feet, and he played as though inspired ‘Where the River Shannon Flows’. Her dark eyes began to gleam. Her vast bosom heaved under the gaudy dressing-gown, and when the last of the reedy notes left their echo in her ears she said:
“Sit ye down, Nat, and I’ll brew ten gallons of tea for ye.”
Chapter Twenty-four
The Grand Parade
HER NAME was Nora O’Connor. Her weight was probably eighteen stone. Her red hair was now white, her nose bulbous, her mouth was her most mobile feature, expressing mirth, anger, sympathy or coyness with express speed. She said she was up early to prepare breakfast for all the guests who asked for it.
Having been serenaded with Danny Boy, she asserted:
“Tea revives you; coffee sustains you. What’ll it be?”
Bony chose coffee when remembering there was another day round the corner, and observing that a huge coffee pot was emitting an enticing aroma from the stove. His head was clear, but his eyes burned and his throat was raw. The price he had paid for being a detective was indeed high. He was told to sit at the central table, and then this paragon of a cook regarded his sandwich with extreme aversion, picked it up between thumb and finger as though it were a dead rat, and tossed it into a scrap pail.
“You shall be ating of bacon and eggs and buttered toast,” she said. “Between sips of your coffee you can play that tune agin. Or another if you knows ’em.”
The coffee was special. The bacon began sizzling in the pan. Bony was astonished by the economy of movement with which she prepared his breakfast. He played ‘Danny Boy’, and hoped that Grandma Conway wouldn’t hear and become jealous. He played it again as the coffee began to bring back a feeling of physical well-being, he being one of the unfortunates whom alcohol does not exhilarate. Having eaten, he said he would go home to sleep for a couple of hours, but Nora wouldn’t hear of it, and showed him to a cell-like room furnished with a single bed and ordered him to ‘hop in’.
On waking he found Bessie O’Grady standing beside the bed and offering a tray of tea and toast.
“Time to rise and shine, Nat.”
“What is the time, Bessie?”
“Gone ten o’clock. You should of taken your shoes off.”
Sitting with his feet to the floor and the tray on his knees, he smiled up at her, and failed to bring an answering smile. Her eyes were angry, but he knew it was not with him. She said:
“Everyone’s doing their chores about the place, and getting ready for dinner. Eric Hillier left the settlement with Brian Kelly. It was late afternoon, and school was still in. That’s why Rosalie didn’t see him go. Some time before lunch, they’d like you to join in with the orchestra for a session. Feeling all right?”
“Wonderful,” he told her.
“You will feel even better after a short hair of the dog. I did. I found out something else. Brian Kelly didn’t come back in their car. He walked back.”
“What time?”
“I don’t know. Red drove the car home first thing next morning. You eat that toast now. I cut out the butter. Dry toast will settle your stomach. Dad will let me go to Sydney some time. See you later.”
Still unsmiling, Bessie left, and Bony sat on and smoked several cigarettes before asking Nora for a towel and borrowing a razor from Jack the Smuggler.
Signs of the festivities of the previous day had been removed from the great room when Bony entered it. He found nearly all the women gathered about Grandma Conway before the huge fireplace, and the children playing with their toys on the floor. The orchestra—two fiddles and three accordions—was playing softly, and he joined them. Rosalie wasn’t at the piano and she wasn’t among the women.
The interlude was terminated by the entry of several men who came to arrange the tables for dinner, and by the women who collected the new generation and took it off for a scrub. Noon passed, and other men drifted in, and again there was that pause of expectancy heralding the coming of the piper leading the procession of cooks.
Following this second enormous meal further sketches and playlets were presented by the children. One was grim, indeed. It began with a police party commanded by a sergeant making camp, and the reconnoitring of this party by one of the Kellys at a place named Stringybark Creek. The Kellys attacked and the sergeant and two constables were shot, the third constable getting away in a vast hurry. This was actually the first clash between the gang and police, the latter suffering ignoble defeat. Long and persistent persecution had thus ended in open warfare which was to continue until the horrific affair at Glenrowan.
Glenrowan was a small township on the new railway from Melbourne, and the Gang had planned to stop a train one mile on the Melbourne side of Glenrowan. It was intended to give a false alarm to the many police reinforcements on the train, and when they rushed to the local barracks thinking the Kellys were holding the local police there, the train was to move on to Glenrowan with all their horses. The horses were to be detrained and driven away into the hills, leaving the police stranded, and all the banks north of Glenrowan just so many sitting ducks.
A June Sunday in 1880 was the D-Day. There were two hotels then at Glenrowan, one being run by a Kelly friend, and the other by a Mrs Jones, a Kelly enemy. The friendly publican was left alone. Mrs Jones was forced to receive the Gang who herded into her hotel most of the Glenrowan population. A great day eventuated for everyone, excepting Mrs Jones who watched her provender and liquor being distributed in a grand party, and there were sports for the children in the back yard during the afternoon. The Gang became befuddled with drink, and the train wasn’t halted until right at Glenrowan, when the police surrounded the hotel and at once began firing into it without regard for the Gang’s innocent hostages within. As the walls were of flimsy wood, their bullets went straight through. Thus was the hatred of the police, half of whom were Irish, for the Kellys who had held them to ridicule for a year.
Glenrowan! Three of the Gang died at Glenrowan, and the fourth was hanged. At Glenrowan was extinguished the last spark of rebellion against autocratic bureaucracy.
Glenrowan! The curtains across one side of Kelly’s hall were drawn aside to reveal the bar of a hotel, and against the shelves at the back, loaded with bottles, was suspended a sign: ‘The Glenrowan Hotel’. A man in shirt sleeves, wearing a scarlet waistcoat, was languidly washing glasses. A cat was cleaning itself at one end of the counter. A woman appeared, tall and angular, dressed in the style of the 1880’s. She entered from the side and began to berate the barman for loafing on the job.
Two men entered the room. One was wearing a frock coat and black whiskers. The other wore drain-pipe trousers, a high-buttoned coat and a huge cravat in which was stuck a great golden horseshoe. They nodded to Mrs Jones and called for rum and milk. They were quaffing this mixture when from outside there came the rising thunder of approaching horses. Into the room sprang a youth to shout:
“The Kellys are here!”
The youth disappeared. Mrs Jones swooned. The customers vaulted the counter and, with the barman, disappeared.
From outside came the mumble of many voices, the low commands of men, and the clanking of metal. In from both front and rear doors came the people of Glenrowan: Rosalie and Bessie, Gaffer and Grandma, in her chair, and the invalid Conwa
y pushed along in his cot by Mrs Conway. They came in like a driven herd of cattle. And after them came men in armour.
There were four of them. Their armour was built of steel ploughshares bolted together to provide protection for body and shoulders and a helmet for the head. The leader was a giant. He carried a rifle and an ancient revolver. He could see through the narrow slit level with his eyes, and as there was no mouth opening his voice boomed as though from the depth of a cavern.
“Ho, there, Mrs Jones,” he called to the woman who had recovered from her swoon. “Begone to your room, Mrs Jones, and stay there or be shot.” He pounded the bar counter and ordered the barman to come up from under. “Drinks, me bhoy! Drinks for all the guests of the Kellys this day.” His ice-blue eyes flickered beyond the slit in his helmet. “The day is ours, people. Drink and make merry for you’re the guests of the Kellys. At Ma Jones’ expense.”
Bony, with the other members of the orchestra, had watched this re-creation of history with astonishment. The crowd surged towards the bar. The two ‘customers’ bobbed up and assisted the barman to dispense orders. And with his fellow musicians, he, too, breasted the bar.
The giant leader roared and shouted and cheered on the guests. Beneath the chin lap of the helmet sprouted black whiskers. The voice was strange, disguised by the metal. But the black whiskers were at odds with the red hairs on the back of his great hands.
“To hell with it. I can’t drink,” he shouted, and lifted off the helmet to reveal Red Kelly. His gang copied him, betraying Smuggler Steve, Brian Kelly and Tim O’Halloran. After their electrifying entrance, they now looked a trifle ridiculous.
Men leaned against the bar, some of them wearing false whiskers and others clothes of the old days when the Kellys roamed the scrub. Old Gaffer was so excited that more grog slipped down his chin than down his throat. The children were given beakers of ‘soft’ drink, and two of them clung to Ned Kelly’s massive legs with expressions of adoration on their chubby faces.
The place was packed, there being more people present than at any previous moment of this festival. The lights were flashed on. The air was heavy with tobacco smoke, and the uproar was endless. Again night came. Again the side tables were loaded with viands and again here and there a man floundered to sit with his back to a wall and close his eyes.
Still in his body armour, but minus his helmet, one of these was Brian Kelly. He leaned his head against the cool wall, and was drifting into unconsciousness when he heard as from a distance the voice of Nat Bonnay.
“What a show, Brian! What a shivoo! You can’t go to sleep yet. Here, I’ve brought you a drink to toast Old Ireland with.”
“Don’ wanna no more,” protested Brian, keeping his eyes closed. Nat Bonnay shouted with laughter, drank, spilled Mountain Dew down inside Brian’s steel armour, laughed again, and said:
“Nothing like this where you’re going, Brian.”
“Where I’m going? You tell me. Think I’m going to London and Dublin? Like hell. I’m staying to chase Rosalie, Nat. She’s ma girl. I’m having Rosalie if it’s the last thing …”
“Sez you,” sneered Nat Bonnay. “She’s still nuts on that Hillier feller.”
“Don’ care, Nat. She’ll forget him in time. He’s in Sydney. I’m right here. Wanna go to sleep. Leave me alone.”
He heard Nat Bonnay chuckling. He felt the rim of a glass against his lips, and drank. Good chap, Nat. Fight like a demon, boots and all, but a good feller at heart. He heard Nat say, chuckling again:
“But you bumped him off, didn’t you? You had the chance. You must have taken the chance to fix him.”
“Bloody fool!” muttered Brian Kelly. “Not you, Nat, not you. Me. I shoulda bumped him off. The old man reckoned I might of. He took him off me and sent me back.”
“Did he now?”
“Don’ worry, Nat. Everything’s jake. I’ll marry that Rosalie. Betcha.”
There was a long silence, within the noise compounded of shouts, laughter, music, and a man singing with powerful voice, ‘Come Back to Erin’.
“You might at that, Brian.” The voice of Nat Bonnay came from the back of beyond. “Yes, you might at that. Where was it your old man took Hillier over from you?”
“Shut up, Nat. Wanna sheep.”
“Up on the rim, I suppose.”
“Beyond Conway’s house. Up where the track joins the main road. Stopped us. Told me to get out. Said I was only a kid. Hit me with a spanner or something. Fix him before I’m ninety, Nat.”
“I might take him off your hands, Brian. Nighty night.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Dinkum Irish Frolics
BONY PRETENDED to be overcome. He lay on his side, his head cradled in his arm, his back to the wall. Beneath his lowered lids he could see beyond the dancers, the hotel bar, the orchestra with Rosalie now playing the piano and the main front door. Red Kelly in his armour was seated on the end of the bar counter, roaring songs with several of his cronies. There could be no doubt of the toughness of these people of Cork Valley. Grandma was defying Mike who was urging her go to her room, and Bessie was dancing with her gaunt father. Not drunk enough to be deprived of his voice, the tenor was competing with Red Kelly.
The progress made during the last twelve hours was the direct result of the many weeks he had spent getting to know these people and studying them. In Casement’s view, and he represented the over-all police opinion, these people of Cork Valley were an indivisible entity, a close-knit community within the larger community of a state. The opinion was only accurate to a limited degree, and Bony now believed he would soon prove it. The reward for diligence and patience was just around the corner. At the end of another hour, under the influence of Mountain Dew, many of those still on their feet would be amenable to an exchange of confidences.
Despite her protests, Grandma was taken from the scene. Almost stealthily, Rosalie left the piano and made her exit. Bessie saw her on the way to the rear door, but her dancing partner refused to release her. Bessie was high.
Bony permitted himself to regain consciousness. Sitting up he yawned at Joe Flanagan who was doing an Irish jig, all by himself, stretched his arms and tested his feet. Among the crowd at the bar was Steve, and Steve’s face wore a fixed grin because those about him seemed oblivious of him and he was feeling lonely. He welcomed Bony, clutching at his shoulders to keep himself standing.
“Good ole Nat! How ya doin’, Nat?”
“Just had a sleep and ready to start again, Steve.” Bony shouted to one of the barmen, and they were instantly served. “Party’s going well. Best party I ever been to, Steve. Red’s on top of his form, eh? No troubles on his mind.”
“As you said, he hasn’t got a mind.”
Bony turned and leaned against the counter. He smiled at Steve and the reserved Steve now grinned with genuine warmth.
“Pity he don’t retire,” he said, referring to Red. “One day he’s going to make a real serious mistake, and some of us will find ourselves in goal. It’s why I spoke my mind. Mike’s something again. He does know how to add up.”
Steve placed an affectionate hand on Bony’s arm, saying:
“You know, Nat, me and you could run the trips without any worry at all, at all.”
“What I don’t like, Steve, is worry when it isn’t necessary. I wouldn’t want pistols on the job, would you?” Steve shook his head, found it hurt, winced and agreed. Another drink, perhaps, could complete the sedative action. Bony asked for refills. “About the silliest thing I ever heard of was that Kelso affair.”
“Yes. An’ nothin’ to do with us, neether. You know about that, Nat?”
“Well, you told me, didn’t you?”
“Did I?” Steve frowned heavily, drank deep. “I don’t …”
“Well, why try to remember anyway? This isn’t a quiz session.” Bony laughed with spontaneous humour. “I reckon that armour suits you. Who are you in the play?”
“Dan Kelly. Bit heavy, but got more
actin’ to do. Yes, that Kelso job was crook, a private argument holding up business like it did. Like it did, Nat. Can’t mix business with pleasure. The Kellys’ pleasure: our business. Lose their blocks. Don’t know their own strength. A killing to smooth out. Here, let me sit down. There’s three of you. Bad sign, and I got more actin’ to do.”
Bony was almost pulled to the floor, but managed to prop Steve into a corner. Steve was now ripe.
“Red’ll kill someone else ’fore he’s through,” Bony said.
“Tole Mike if he did I wouldn’t live no more in Cork Valley.”
“What did Mike say?”
“Said if Red did, it’s the open country for him, not me nor anyone else. Gimme a drink?”
“You’ve had it, Steve. Have a sleep. I’ll be standing by.”
A long dry chuckle met Bony as he straightened up from arranging Steve, and there was Gaffer under the top hat, eyes bright and twinkling.
“Weak. That’s what they are, Nat,” he averred. “Not like my generation. Not like Dan Kelly he’s supposed to be. How are you farin’?”
“All right, so far. How are you?”
“Some way off from being like him, Nat,” replied Gaffer. He was gazing appreciatively at Bony when in through the open front door ran a boy to stand gaping at the scene until he saw Red Kelly sitting on the counter. Darting in and out between the dancers, he pushed his way through the men about Kelly, and shouted: “The police …” He was so excited or so winded, he appeared likely to collapse and had to fight for coherence. “The police are on the way, Red. True, Red.”
Red Kelly ceased his shouting, glanced at the ancient clock at the back of the bar, and roared with laughter.
“You’re too early, Col, too early. Come back in half an hour. Go on, git away now. I’m telling you, bhoy.”
“But, Red, true, Red.”
Bony - 25 - Bony and The Kelly Gang Page 18
