by Jack Tunney
I WISH TO
ACQUAINT
YOU WITH
SOME
OCCURENCES
OF THE
PRESENT,
PAST
AND
FUTURE.
EDWARD KELLY
THE JERILDERIE LETTER (1879)
FIGHT CARD:
THE IRON FISTS OF
NED KELLY
ANOTHER TWO-FISTED
FIGHT CARD TALE
JACK TUNNEY
FIGHT CARD: THE IRON FISTS OF NED KELLY
e-Book Edition – first published November 2014
Copyright © 2014 David James Foster
Fight Card created by Paul Bishop and Mel Odom
Fight Card and associated logos © 2012 Paul Bishop and Mel Odom
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission from the publisher.
Cover illustration by Mike Fyles
Lorna Doone (1869), by R. D. Blackmore
The Jerilderie Letter (1879), Edward Kelly – as transcribed by Joe Byrne
Songs:
Doin' Time. Traditional.
Ned Kelly Was Born in a Ramshackle Hut. Anonymous.
The Stolen Horse. J Smail.
Ned Kelly. Shel Silverstein.
Wild Colonial Boy. Traditional.
Poor Ned Kelly. Traditional.
Farewell to Greta. Traditional.
When the Children Come Home. Henry Lawson.
Click Goes the Shears. Attributed to C. C. Eynesbury / H.C. Work.
Heenan and Sayers. Traditional.
Hangman / The Prickilie Bush. Traditional.
The Iron Fists of Ned Kelly. David James Foster.
EDITORS NOTE: SPELLING IN THE FOLLOWING STORY
FOLLOWS TRADITIONAL AUSTRALIAN USAGE.
PROLOGUE
A TALE YOU WON'T BELIEVE
MELBOURNE GAOL
COLONY OF VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA,
NOVEMBER 10, 1880
At night you are surrounded – By four great whitewashed walls,
You will hear the hours chiming – As the warder makes his calls,
Or maybe you are dreaming – Of the one you love so well,
When suddenly you're wakened –By the ringing of the bell.
Doin' Time (Traditional)
Resting against the whitewashed wall, Edward Kelly peered out through the narrow slit of his cell window. The sky was a burnt orange. It would be the last sunset he would ever see. He was sentenced to hang the very next day. He remembered how the crier had called the court room to silence as Judge Redmond Barry Q.C. pronounced sentence. Death. No reprieve. Not that Ned wanted one. He feared death as little as to drink a cup of tea. Twenty-five years wasn't a long life, but during his time he had shaken the world. He had shown the corrupt fly-blown, flat-footed traps a thing or two.
What were the words Judge Barry had used? 'You are to be taken from this place, to a place of execution, where you are to be hung by the neck until dead. And may God have mercy on your soul.'
Ned almost smiled as he thought back at that fateful day. Judge Barry had been shocked when Ned greeted the death sentence with the words, 'I will go a little further than that, and say I will see you there when I go.'
It took a moment for Barry to comprehend Ned's meaning – Hell.
In his own way, Ned had told the judge, 'I'll see you in Hell!'
The judge's face had turned redder than a baboon's arse, and he banged his gavel down on the bench as the gallery burst into laughter.
However, it was a small victory. Ned would still hang.
When Ned thought back on the chain of events leading to this moment, it still made him shake his head. If only the police train had been on time. That's where his plan went wrong. If it had come when it should, the train would have been derailed near the town of Glenrowan. The Victorian Colonial Police Force on board would have been blasted to kingdom come or scattered to the four winds.
But Ned hadn't counted on the simple-mindedness and cowardice of the traps – slang for the local police. It had seemed like such a simple plan. And it had all hinged on Aaron Sherritt.
Sherritt had appeared to be a loyal friend of the Kelly gang. He had grown up with Ned's trusted comrade in arms, Joe Byrne. But Sherritt had turned informer. He'd gone doggo. He had taken a young bride and needed money to pay for their new life somewhere else. He betrayed and sold out the Kelly gang for cash. He even had four traps waiting at his hut in case the gang came calling.
And came they did.
Ned saw to that. He had sent his younger brother, Dan, and Joe Byrne to Sherritt's hut to kill him. But it was more than revenge. Sherritt was bait.
Joe shot Sherritt at 7:00 pm on the 26th of June, just as planned. The traps were supposed to quickly raise the alarm. In response to the killing, a special police train was to be sent from Benalla to Beechworth to apprehend the outlaws. Knowing this, Ned and his men had lifted the rails off the track, near the small township of Glenrowan, which sat between the two cities. As the train hit the torn up section of track, it would be derailed, rolling down a steep embankment. In the confusion, Ned and his sympathisers would swoop in and engage the police force in battle.
Simple.
Well, it should have been.
Fearful for their lives, the police at Sherritt's hut cowered under the bed all night. It was not till 1:00 pm the next day, eighteen hours after Sherritt's murder, that the bandy-legged yellow-stained cowards telegraphed Benalla. But that wasn't the last of it. Delayed yet further, the police train itself did not leave Benalla until 2:30 am.
Over thirty-one hours had passed, and by this time Ned's plan had started to unravel. The townsfolk Ned held prisoner in Glenrowan were tired and restless. Ned, himself, had not slept in two days.
As the hours continued to roll by, Ned allowed twenty of the prisoners to go free – including school teacher, Thomas Curnow. It was Curnow, who running along the track holding a red scarf in front of a lantern, stopped the train before it could be derailed. The police then descended on the township. The rest was history. The whole world now knew about the famous siege at Glenrowan.
Ned shook his head and reached down and picked up a book that sat beside his bunk. Lorna Doone, by R.D. Blackmore. It was his favorite. He opened it to a page he had marked. He had read the passage many times. He could almost recite it.
But most of all the flinging fire leaped into the rocky mouth of the glen below me, where the horsemen passed in silence, scarcely deigning to look round. Heavy men and large of stature, reckless how they bore their guns, or how they sate their horses, with leathern jerkins, and long boots, and iron plates on breast and head, plunder heaped behind their saddles, and flagons slung in front of them; I counted more than thirty pass, like clouds upon red sunset...
He put the book down. Iron plates on breast and head. The armor! The armor had almost worked. He had been shot twenty-eight times and still survived. Who else could lay claim to that? He knew he would be remembered.
But would he be remembered as a hero or a villain?
Most likely a villain. The powers that be would see to it. From an early age he had been persecuted for simply being a Kelly, son of a lag who had been transported to Van Diemen's land. He wasn't born with money and he was Irish. That was two strikes against him before he had even begun.
His thoughts were interrupted as the hatch on the cell door opened. Ned looked up and saw the beady eyes of the warder staring through the bars.
“Kelly! You
've got a visitor,” the warder bellowed.
Ned got up and stood by the back wall, as was required. The hatch shut and he heard a key inserted into the lock. The heavy metal door swung open and a man entered, carrying a small wooden stool.
Ned looked at the figure dressed in black with a white collar. He hadn't seen Father O'Hea in six years since his stay in Pentridge Prison – also in Melbourne. The priest had hardly aged. Maybe his hair was a little grayer, and there were a few more crow's feet around his eyes, but beyond that he was the same squat dour figure he remembered.
“I had always hoped you were too smart to end up here,” O'Hea said solemnly, as he put the stool down on the floor. “What did I tell you all those years ago, about knuckling down and beating the establishment at its own game?”
“I tried. By Hell, I tried,” Ned responded, sitting back down on his bunk. The priest look at him sternly. Ned realised he had blasphemed. “Sorry, Father.”
“You didn't try hard enough. Now your brother's dead and two others. Do you know how much damage you've done?” the priest asked.
“I didn't ask for you to come so you could lecture me,” Ned answered.
“Then why did you send for me?”
“I've got a letter here for Maggie and my ma. I was hoping you could get it to them.”
O'Hea nodded. “I'll do what I can.”
Ned reached down and pulled two folded pages which he had tucked at the back of Lorna Doone. He reached over and handed them to the priest.
“Thank you, Father,” Ned said sincerely.
O'Hea nodded once again, slipping the pages into his pocket.
“Is there anything else I can do for you?” O'Hea asked. “Do you want confession?”
“Confession?” Ned shook his head then looked up, his eyes meeting O'Hea's.
For a priest, Ned figured O'Hea was a decent man. He had always looked out for the sons of Erin's Isle. It had been he who had helped Ned back on the straight and narrow when he served his time in Pentridge.
Pentridge. That had been nine years ago – 1871. He was sentenced to three years imprisonment with hard labor. Horse theft was what done it that time. Or more correctly feloniously receiving a horse – that's what the judge had said. And it was all that crazy bastard 'Wild' Wright's fault. Wright was now one of Ned's most vocal supporters. He had aided in circulating the petition to have his sentence quashed. Not that it did any good. But Ned and Wright hadn't started out as friends. Ned smiled as he thought back.
“What are you grinning at?” O'Hea asked, confused at what the felon could find so amusing.
“I won't give you my confession, Father. It wouldn't do any good. I know where I am going,” Ned replied. “But if you have the time, I'll tell you a tale you won't believe…”
ROUND 1
THE COLOURED WAGONS
THE KELLY SELECTION
ELEVEN MILE CREEK
EASTERN VICTORIA
30 OCTOBER 1870
“Ned Kelly was born in a ramshackle hut,
He battled since he was a kid,
He grew up with duffers and bad men and thieves
And learned all the things that they did.”
Ned Kelly Was Born in a Ramshackle Hut (Anonymous)
At only fifteen years old, Edward Kelly was the man of the house. His father, John 'Red' Kelly died in December 1866, leaving his widow, Ellen, with five of her seven children to bring up on her own. She did the best she could, but Edward, known as 'Ned', did the lion's share of work around the selection. To some people, the Kelly homestead was little more than a stringybark shack, but to Ned, the three room cabin was all he knew and he was not going to let it fall into ruin.
As Ellen tended to the washing, Ned would set about making repairs. That morning, he had already raised a collapsed fence section and patched a leak in the roof. It had rained heavily the night before and his younger brother, Dan, complained endlessly about the droplets hitting his face as he tried to sleep. But Ned still had one chore to complete before he could rest for a spell.
Not afraid of hard labor, he picked up a blockbuster and crossed to a stack of redgum logs piled against the side of the building. They had to be cut down for firewood. Standing astride one of the logs, he swung the axe overhead and brought it down, splintering the hard outer bark. After a few more lusty blows, he was into the heart of the log and the woodchips were flying.
The constant grind of hard work had sculptured Ned's physique into one that belied his years. Standing five-foot-eight, he was square shouldered and well-muscled. Only his unruly mop of dark hair hinted at his youth.
It took an hour for Ned to chop enough firewood to last the week. After he had finished, he crossed to the coral, leaning on the weathered-gum railing to watch the horses at play. They were his pride and joy. He had collected a good string of horses, twenty in all. Each of them, either bought or traded for, now wore the Kelly brand.
“Hello there,” a voice called from behind.
Ned turned and saw an overdressed stranger in a top hat trudging across the field. He didn't recognize the man, but figured there was no harm being hospitable.
“Can I help you?” Ned asked.
“Sorry to impose on you, young man. My name is Gould. Ben Gould. I am a traveling merchant and I seem to have run into a spot of bother.”
Gould was a cheerful, ebullient fellow with an unruly set of snow white whiskers. His cheeks were flushed and he appeared out of breath.
“What's the trouble?” Ned queried, moving away from the coral toward him.
“I was wondering if your father was around.”
“He's dead,” a woman answered from the side.
The stranger turned and saw Ellen Kelly walking toward him. Ellen, the matriarch of the Kelly family was thirty-eight years old, but life in the country, especially bringing up the children on her own wasn't easy. The hard toil made her look much older than she was. Her face was lined and weathered, and her hair pulled up in a tight bun. She held a washing basket on her hip.
“I am sorry to hear it,” Gould said apologetically, removing his hat.
“It was four years past,” Ellen added dismissively. “What can we do for you, Mr. Gould?”
“My wagon is stuck in the mud down the track a ways,” he explained. “I can't get it free. I was hoping to find some help.”
“I'll take care of it, ma,” Ned answered. “It won't take me long.”
“Just see it doesn't. I want you back here for supper,” she said, turning to go back to her work.
Ned returned his attention to Gould. “Let's go have a look at your wagon. We'll see what we can do.”
Ned crossed to the coral and picked up a bridle hanging over a fence railing. He raised the slip rail that kept his horses penned and approached the strongest of his string. It was an Oldenburg Dray named Heenan, after American fighter John C. Heenan.
Heenan wasn't a large horse, only fourteen hands high, but stout-hearted, muscular and wiry. Ned figured he'd be able to pull the stricken wagon free. Heenan wasn't skittish and Ned slipped a bridle over the horse's nose and ears with ease. He didn't bother with a saddle, figuring he wouldn't be doing much riding. Once the bridle was fitted, he led Heenan out of the coral by the reins, stopping only to put the rail back in place again.
“Do you have a length of rope we can use?” Ned asked.
“I have a couple back in my wagon,” the old merchant confirmed as they began their journey across the paddock.
Ned chose not to ride, walking alongside Gould, with Heenan trundling behind.
“What's your name, lad?” Gould asked, as they hit the rutted, boggy track.
“Ned. Ned Kelly.”
Gould held out his hand. “Pleased to make your acquaintance, Mr. Kelly.”
Ned shook it. They made the rest of the journey in silence. Five minutes later they came upon the wagon.
“Well, young Mr. Kelly, there she is. As you can see, she's not going anywhere.”
N
ed saw the brightly painted red wagon angled in the mud, up to its axle on the left hand side. An old draft horse stood before it with its head bowed. Gould walked over to the horse and gently placed his hand on his neck.
“This is Old Toby,” Gould said. “He's a good horse but he's getting on in years, much like myself. There was a time when he would have pulled me clear. But now we both need a little help.”
Ned nodded, and then set to work.
***
Four miles away, a green wagon rolled into the small township of Greta. Large painted letters on the side of the wagon read, Clothing Merchants - Avenel. Ladies and Gentlemen's Outfitter. The driver, Jeremiah McCormack, eased up on the reins and brought the wagon to a halt beside the police station. Beside him, holding onto a wide brimmed hat, sat his busty and round bottomed wife, Hattie.
McCormack was a pinch faced man with ruddy cheeks and a pencil thin moustache. He thought it made him look sophisticated, but to most people, in the countryside where the fashion was to wear heavy whiskers, it looked rather strange. He stepped down from the wagon, careful to avoid the mud.
“I'll just be a moment,” he said to his wife.
McCormack removed the harness and bridle from his horse. It was a distinctive looking pinto, and taking the gelding by the reins, McCormack led him to a hitching post. He lazily wrapped the reins around the post and returned his attention to his wife who still sat at the front of the wagon. He knew she wouldn't climb down with all the mud around. Nor did he want her to do so. It wouldn't do to have her seen by the locals covered in mud. It was bad for business. He walked across and held out his arms.
“Here, let me carry you,” he said.
She nodded, and slid across the seat of the wagon to the edge.
He slid one hand beneath her knees, and placed the other around her back and lifted. She was heavy, but he didn't have to carry her far. He transported her to the wooden planked pavement running the length of the street, then lowered her down. He took a deep breath as she fussed with the hem of her skirt.
