The Hunt for Ned Kelly

by Sophie Masson

  I knew that from my pamphlet. But I was still all ears as the American said, ‘A brave boy, he must have been, then. How did it happen he turned to the bad?’

  Mr Ingram gave the man a hard glance. ‘How should I know? The family were poor, and maybe it was that temptation lay in his way. Or the influence of those wild uncles of his.’

  ‘Or that he sought the easy way, sir—crime instead of working?’

  ‘Oh, he worked, too. He’s a big strong fellow and he worked at clearing land and chopping trees and everyone said he was a good worker. Why he gave in to temptation I cannot know. I am no parson, sir; I cannot see into a man’s soul.’

  The American didn’t seem in the least put out by Mr Ingram’s tone. ‘But you yourself were well acquainted with Ned Kelly, sir?’ he asked, eagerly making notes in a little book.

  Mr Ingram nodded. ‘Oh yes. I was well acquainted with Ned Kelly before he took to the bush.’

  ‘I heard he and his friend Joe Byrne used to come to your shop, sir. They were both great readers, I understand?’

  Mr Ingram nodded.

  ‘What was he like then, sir—Ned, I mean?’

  ‘He was, in his usual manner, of a quiet unassuming disposition—a polite and gentlemanly man.’

  ‘But now, sir, what do you think now? Has he not changed? Would you not be afraid of him now?’

  Mr Ingram paused. He shrugged. ‘I would not be afraid to meet him in the bush anywhere.’

  ‘And Joe Byrne?’

  ‘He used to come into my shop often when he was a lad. A very nice little fellow, and well behaved.’

  ‘Then you must be most surprised, sir, that—’

  Mr Ingram’s mouth turned down. He spoke firmly. ‘Life is full of surprises, Mr Turner. Now, is there anything else I may do to help you?’ It was clear he was closing the subject and the American knew it too, because he said, ‘Why no, thank you, Mr Ingram, I will browse most happily in your wonderful reading room for a while.’

  And with that Mr Ingram left the room and Mr Turner stayed browsing in a rather vague way amongst the newspapers and periodicals. He looked at me once and opened his mouth as if to say something, but must have thought better of it because very soon he jammed his hat back on his head and left.

  August 13

  I have seen Mr Turner again and learned why he is here. This is how it came about. I had finished my work at the widow Pickett’s early and was on my way to my usual haunt in Ingram’s, leaving Lorna behind today at the widow’s. I had thought a good deal about Mr Ingram’s words and decided that in fact they did not surprise me that much. Mr Ingram is a fair man and not one of those who would simply turn someone he has actually known into a demon just because the press and other people who do not know him say he must be. Mr Turner might have wanted him to say what a bad lot Ned Kelly was—and he had badgered him enough about it—but Mr Ingram had refused to be moved to it.

  Which is not to say Mr Ingram approves of Ned Kelly’s and Joe Byrne’s present actions; I am sure he does not at all. But he is prepared to say the truth as he sees it and that I think is a very fine thing in any man. I hope I can live up to that too. I try in this diary to say the truth as I see it and not pretend to be greater or more clever or better than I really am. And to try to show other people too in that light, in as honest a way as I can.

  Anyway, I was on my way to Ingram’s, but stopped to study a new poster that had just been pasted up on a wall. This one didn’t just have writing on it, but also a frightening picture of Ned Kelly, black-browed and heavy-bearded, looking like he could strike you dead with one look, like the Gorgon. I was looking at it and thinking that I might be afraid if I met him looking like that in the bush, or anywhere else, come to that, when someone said at my shoulder, ‘Regular grim brute, ain’t he? Looks ready to eat you for breakfast. Doesn’t look like the kind of man who would ride a horse called Mirth, does it? But he does—and his friend Joe Byrne rides a horse called Music. You ever hear the like? Mirth and Music—outlaw horses!’

  It was Mr Turner. When I didn’t answer, he said, ‘You thinking of going for that reward and nabbing the Captain, son?’

  I turned. ‘The Captain?’

  ‘That’s what I’ve heard Ned Kelly called, in these parts, by those who admire him. So, that reward, you interested, son?’

  ‘Oh no!’

  ‘Why not? You wouldn’t dare, or you wouldn’t want? Say,’ he interrupted himself, ‘ain’t you the boy who was in Ingram’s the other day, when I was pestering him with questions? You looked like you were hanging on our every word.’

  ‘Oh no, sir,’ I said warily, wondering if at any moment he was going to whip out that blessed notebook of his and write down what I said. Who was he? A police spy?

  Mr Turner grinned. ‘Don’t worry, son. I’m just a wandering reporter, looking for local colour, going around talking to folks, finding out their take on the Kelly boys. Not always easy. Place is crawling with plain-clothes police and informers, never know who you’re talking to. They got ‘em even in the Chinese camp.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said cautiously.

  ‘I write for newspapers, see,’ he went on. ‘Been a stringer all over. Not here, though—in the US of A. You heard of Jesse James, son?’

  I nodded. Of course I’d heard of the famous American outlaw. Who hadn’t? He’d held up banks and trains and mail coaches and pretty much anything that was going, and even after sixteen years on the run he was still at large.

  ‘Well, you are looking at a man who stood only a few feet from Jesse James at a hold-up,’ he said proudly.

  I gasped. ‘Do you mean to say you were in his gang, sir?’

  He laughed and laughed. ‘Oh, that’s a good one! No, no, son, I just happened to be there when it happened and I wrote about it and that article was picked up just about everywhere and I saw where my way lay.’

  ‘Oh,’ I said weakly, feeling a bit sheepish.

  ‘See, my interest is in outlaws, and when I read about the Kelly outbreak in one of our papers and what a big do it was, and how your police just can’t seem to catch the man, then I decided I must come over here and see it for myself, so I can write about it for the papers back home. So, sir, here I am.’

  I was amazed. I had never known you could do a thing like that, just follow a story as the will and the heart took you. I forgot all my earlier doubts about him. ‘Oh, it must be such a fine thing to do! I should like very much to do that too, one day, sir.’

  ‘Would you, son? Well, why not?’

  Why not indeed? I felt dazzled. A dream had opened before me. I said eagerly, ‘Sir, if you’re interested in Ned Kelly, I have a pamphlet—I mean, it’s all about him, I bought it in Benalla. If you’d like to see it, I—’

  ‘Oh, you mean The Sensational Life and Times? Yes, good value, isn’t it? I bought a copy myself.’

  ‘Oh.’ I felt a little dashed.

  He grinned. ‘Don’t worry, son. I’m a real magpie when it comes to things like that. Now then—I don’t think we’ve been properly introduced, have we?’ He stuck out a hand. ‘Name’s Turner, Elijah Turner.’

  We shook. ‘I’m very pleased to meet you, Mr Turner. I—my name’s Ross. James Henry Ross. But people call me Jamie.’

  ‘Well, Jamie—if you don’t mind—I am most pleased to make your acquaintance. I do not think you are from Beechworth, are you Jamie? I’ve not seen you about before—and I have a good memory for faces.’

  ‘No, sir—I mean, Mr Turner. My sister Ellen and I, we’ve come from Melbourne just in the last week.’

  At that very moment I caught sight of Ellen herself, walking briskly down the street towards us. She had a look on her face that I knew well, a look that said something had got her dander up. I said hurriedly, ‘Here’s my sister come now. Good day to you, Mr Turner.’ I planted him there and hurried to Ellen. I did not fancy a dressing-down in front of a stranger.

  But Ellen was not interested in dressing me down. After asking who the ging
ery man was and not expressing much interest in my reply, she said, ‘It is intolerable, if I was a man they would never dare.’ I grasped enough to realise she wasn’t talking about Mr Turner, but whoever had got her dander up. She explained that she had finally persuaded a local photographer to take a look at some of the prints she had brought in her bundle, a selection of the best ones she’d taken with Pa, because she thought he might advance her some money so she could buy photographic supplies. ‘He was very impressed at first and then he seemed to change his mind and said that he didn’t believe I had taken them. He implied that my age and my sex made such a thing impossible, though he said that if I wanted, I could come and work as his assistant and learn the trade.’ Ellen was practically spitting with rage. ‘Can you believe it, the unbearable gall of some people!’

  I agreed it was unbearable. We were walking back to the widow Pickett’s by this time, but she stopped and fixed me with a steely eye and said, ‘It does not matter, Jamie, I will not be prevented. If I can’t get the fixing chemicals, then I’ll make do with something else. I remember Pa saying that honey or raspberry jam might do at a pinch.’

  It was useless to remind her that Pa had heard of that homemade remedy, but never tried it. She is all for starting as soon as the pair of us next have time off. For of course yours truly is to be pressed into service fetching and carrying and helping to set up.

  August 17

  Ellen’s plans have been foiled the last few days because it rained, but today the sun shone and so did my sister’s resolve. She still has not said exactly what this fortune-hunting notion of hers is, but merely that today she wanted to practise. So we loaded up the buggy and got Laddie out of peaceful retirement and set off with all our equipment, including a jar of honey Ellen actually managed to wheedle from the widow. She told Mrs Pickett about Pa and the camera and all, and the widow proved surprisingly interested in the project. She made only one condition for the use of the honey: if it works, Ellen is to take a photograph of her in front of her fine Beechworth house so as to send to relatives back in the old country. Ellen agreed at once, of course, and we were on our way.

  On our way to the cemetery, that is. Not because of any ghoulish interest, but because Ellen thinks the dead are easier to practise on than the living. She will attempt to take photographs of the graves under the trees. The homemade fixing will most likely require a longer exposure time than is normal, but it will not matter too much. Graves do not move. Neither do trees or houses, of course, but Ellen thinks we will be more out of the way in the cemetery, and there will be fewer prying eyes to see. Also she thinks it is more interesting than photographing the bush or someone’s house.

  So we went on our merry way to the city of the dead. We managed to find a quiet, weedy corner where there was not a living soul to be seen, and Ellen set up the camera. It was very peaceful there, as you might expect, and I sat under a tree with Lorna a little distance away and watched Ellen working. It was almost like the old days, except that Pa wasn’t with us. And once again the pain at his going filled me so that I had to push it aside and try to concentrate fiercely on something else.

  Mr Turner, for instance. Not him exactly, but his job. How pleasant it would be to go roaming across the world in search of exciting stories! That was my new dream, I decided, my eyes half-closing. That was what I would do, once I was grown up. I would go on the track of—

  And then I jumped. Someone’s hand had landed on my shoulder. I looked up, half-expecting to see nosy Mr Turner. But no, it wasn’t. ‘Mr Cook,’ I stammered, scrambling up. ‘How do you do, sir?’

  He bent down to stroke Lorna’s head. She wagged her tail. ‘Well enough, Jamie Ross, thank you.’

  ‘And—and your friend Mr Thompson, sir?’

  ‘Even better.’ He looked shrewdly at me. ‘But weren’t you headed for Wangaratta and those squatters?’

  I flushed. ‘It … the job wasn’t as advertised,’ I mumbled. ‘My sister—she thought we should come to Beechworth.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ He looked over at Ellen who, with her back to him, still hadn’t seen him. ‘But what in heaven’s name are you doing here?’

  ‘She takes photographs, sir,’ I said sheepishly.

  ‘So she does. Of the dead. Wouldn’t the living be better?’

  ‘Yes, sir. But you see, it is because of the honey on the plates.’

  He stared at me. ‘What?’

  ‘Do you know how a camera works, sir?’

  He smiled and shook his head. ‘Enlighten me, Jamie.’

  ‘The camera’s really a sort of box that uses light to form images through a lens. At the back of the camera, you have your negative plates set up. They are made of glass or metal. Light rays pass through the lens to the image, and also spread from the object you photograph, and this makes the image on the plate. But to fix the image, the plate must be treated with a chemical solution which will darken when exposed to light and so permanently hold the image.’

  ‘I see. But honey? That seems strange.’

  ‘Well, sir, it’s just because we have nothing else on hand. The solution that’s most used is called wet-plate solution, it’s mostly silver chloride salts. You can get dry-plate now, silver gelatine it is, and that’s much easier. But we can’t afford dry-plate and we don’t have any wet-plate solution left, so we’re using something Pa told us about. Honey and jam smeared on a negative plate can fix an image at a pinch, though not that well. After that, you use the same process to turn the negative plate into a positive print, on paper.’

  Mr Cook shook his head wonderingly. ‘Sure, and what a strange world we live in! You are almost magicians, you and your sister, I think.’

  ‘Oh, no, sir! It is just a simple science, really.’

  He smiled again. ‘Modest as well!’ He looked sharply at me. ‘But this honeyed experiment of yours—will it work?’

  ‘I don’t know, sir. We’ve never tried it. But our pa—he—he told Ellen about it. He was a photographer, you see.’

  ‘Was?’ he echoed.

  ‘He—he passed away, sir, not so long ago and …’ All of a sudden, I couldn’t finish my sentence. I looked away so he wouldn’t see me fiercely blinking away treacherous tears.

  He said softly, ‘Don’t be ashamed, Jamie. My father died when I was about your age—and my friend, Mr Thompson, it was the same for him. We both know what it is to miss your beloved father like an ache in the belly.’ He paused, then went on in a lighter tone. ‘Well, I would like to stay here longer—but I have an urgent appointment and must keep it. Good luck to you, Jamie Ross, and to your sister’s sweetened graves.’

  ‘Oh, but sir, I know my sister would like to—’ But I was speaking to thin air. He was already gone. As I looked after him, I saw a figure detach itself from the far wall and hurry after him. From this distance I could not see his face clearly, only that he seemed to be Chinese. They walked off together and were soon lost from sight.

  As I thought, Ellen was annoyed with me for not having told her he was there. But as I sit writing this account tonight, I think not just of what Mr Cook told me, but also this: though Mr Cook learned what strange errand had taken us to Beechworth cemetery, he had never said why he was there, in that lonely place so many miles from where we’d last seen him. Suddenly I remembered what Mr Turner had said about the informers in the Chinese camp. I remembered Mr Thompson’s look of angry disgust when I spoke of the Kellys. What if … what if both those men were actually plain-clothes police on the hunt for Ned Kelly and his men, and Mr Cook had been meeting one of his Chinese informers? The thought makes my palms prickle. If Mr Cook was meeting an informer, does it mean that the Kellys are likely to be in or around Beechworth? Suddenly the Kelly hunt doesn’t feel like something you read about in the papers anymore, but right here, close to me.

  August 19

  Ellen’s honey experiment wasn’t a great success. Only one of the images ‘took’. But no matter, it still had a good result, because Mrs Pickett takes a
great interest now and has declared she will fund the purchase of anything Ellen may need to start photographing in earnest. And Ellen finally revealed what her great idea was! It’s to make a photographic record of Beechworth. She will take photographs of people at work and play and combine it all in a book. Mrs Pickett thinks it is marvellous. But I found it a disappointment, for it did not strike me as the sort of idea which would attract fortune to us like flies to honey—ha!—and I also did not see why she would have stayed quiet on the notion for so long. But then I do not always understand my sister and the things that come into her head. I dare say she might say the same about me.

  I have not seen Mr Turner about for some days, nor Mr Cook and Mr Thompson. But this morning in Allen’s store where I had gone on an errand for Mrs Pickett, I caught sight of a man who has been into Ingram’s once or twice—he is sweet on one of the girls working there. Mr Ingram says he was a childhood friend of Joe Byrne. His name is Aaron Sherritt and he is a very flash sort of cove, dark-haired, proud as Lucifer, with a swaggering walk and high-heeled larrikin boots and a bright sash around his waist and his hat tilted at an angle. He works on local farms and he’s a bare-knuckle fighter and a quarrelsome sort of man. It is said he is a rogue who’s been in trouble many times. Some say he is still friends with the outlaws, though there are others who say that he has changed sides.

  August 22

  Great excitement in Beechworth today. Word had got around that the Kellys had been spotted only a few miles away, and rumour ran wild that they had sent accomplices to the town a few days ago to secretly check the security arrangements of the Oriental Bank, with a view to raiding it like in Euroa and Jerilderie! It was just a rumour, but around the table at Mrs Pickett’s tonight the talk was all of the gang.

  One of Mrs Pickett’s lodgers, Mr Church, is a bank employee and he told us that every bank in north-east Victoria and far beyond is nervous, for it is undoubtedly true that the Kellys were sending scouts into towns to look over possibilities. He said that in March this year a cousin of the Kellys was seen checking out a bank in Trentham, which is a very long way south-west from here. The bank manager had been alerted and the branch was closed, for prudence’s sake, for a little while, while police numbers were increased. But the Kellys had been alerted too and didn’t show, of course.