The Iron Fists of Ned Kelly (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

“A few of us are meeting up at the hotel for a few drinks this evening. Will we see you there?”

  “No thanks, Mr. Foley. I have no intention of pissing away a month's wages in one night,” Ned stated.

  Foley grinned. “Good lad. And good luck to you. Might see you next season.”

  “You might,” Ned agreed.

  Ned returned his attention to the next sheep to be shorn as Foley moved along the shed. So that was it. All the shearers would pack up their belongings and start searching for other work to tide them over till next season. Ned too would have to find another job. But he had a good idea where to go. The fleece had to be sold and transported to a major city, either Melbourne to the south, or Sydney, to the north-east. Melbourne was the closest.

  ***

  RIVER PORT OF ECHUCA

  COLONY OF VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA,

  APRIL 1884

  Six weeks later...

  As the derrick swung the bale of fleece over the redgum wharf, Ned and another worker took hold of the load as it hung above them and guided it across to where other bales had been stacked. Once in position, they unhitched the ropes and the derrick swung back out over the steam boat docked alongside. There two other men began to attach the next bale.

  It was hard and heavy work. It was staggering how busy the port was. Ned had been working at the port for three weeks. The mile long Echuca wharf was the largest inland port in the world. Its central position on the Murray River, at the point closest to Melbourne, made it vital hub for all commerce. It was far easier to transport goods along the river than overland, so produce would be shipped in from east and west along the river to Echuca, then transported the shorter distance overland.

  As the next bale swung overhead, Ned saw the wharf foreman bustling along the sleepers toward him. The foreman was a brawny Italian named Marino, who rumour had it, was not above a little pilfering from the wharf-side warehouse. He was always dressed above his station, in a tailored worsted suit, and with a gold fob-watch hanging from a chain attached to his waistcoat.

  “Kelly, I want to see you in my office right away,” Marino bellowed.

  “What about?” Ned called.

  Marino didn't respond to the question. “Office,” he grunted, this time pointing his fat finger, then turning on his heel. Ned was supposed to follow.

  Ned guided the next bale down, excused himself, and then followed after him. When he entered the office, he saw Marino was already seated behind a heavy desk, and in the process of lighting a cigar.

  “What did you want to see me about?” Ned asked.

  Marino took several puffs, then removed the cigar from his mouth, and used it as a pointer as he spoke. “It's come to my attention several crates on whiskey went missing from the stores last night.” The implication was clear.

  “I haven't heard anything about it,” Ned replied.

  “Don't be coy with me, Kelly. I know all about you. They say you used to ride with Bushranger Harry Power, and that you spent three years in prison for theft.”

  Ned resented his past being dragged out like this. Since prison, he had done everything possible to keep to the straight and narrow.

  “I didn't take the whiskey and you can't prove I did,” Ned hissed, clenching his fists. He suspected that Marino, or one of his cronies, had taken the liquor, but when the theft was discovered, they needed a scapegoat – and Ned fitted the bill.

  “I may not be able to prove it, but I don't have to keep you on here. You're finished Kelly,” Marino snapped. He reached into his top pocket and retrieved his billfold. He took out a pound note and a few coins and threw them onto the table. “There's what you're owed. Take it and go.”

  This wasn't fair. Ned wanted to strangle the corrupt blaggard, or maybe rip his heart out through his mouth. But getting into a fight wouldn't do him any good. Ned took several deep breaths, then nodded. He picked up the money and left the office.

  Once again, he was out of work. However, he had heard a sawmill in Mansfield was hiring. Mansfield was in the high country – back near his home. Maybe after a while, he could pay a visit to his ma.

  ***

  MACCRACKEN SAWMILL

  MANSFIELD

  COLONY OF VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA,

  JULY 1884

  Three months later...

  Ned threw three more logs into the furnace to keep the steam engine turning. The large fly wheel was connected to a belt which drove the buzz saw. He pulled a white kerchief up over his nose to prevent breathing in the sawdust which hung thick in the air. He figured he looked like one of those American bandits he read about in the papers.

  Returning to the task at hand, he rolled a large redgum log across to the saw and started feeding it to the spinning blade. There was a loud whine as the teeth bit into the wood, sending dust into the air. He cut the log down into several eighteen-foot long sections. He would later slit them down into sleepers. It was hard work, but the pay was fair and, so far, his past had not come back to haunt him.

  A steam whistle sounded in the distance, signaling the end of the working day. Ned finished cutting the log he was working on and crossed to the steam engine. He opened the release valve and a cloud of steam rose into the air. Without steam pressure to drive the saw, the blade slowly stopped spinning until it came to a halt.

  Ned pulled the kerchief from his face and brushed the sawdust from his clothes. He smiled. This was the day of the week he had been waiting for. Pay day. He earned seven shillings a day at the mill. Outside a table had been set up and two men were seated behind it. Lined up in front were the workers, waiting in turn to receive their pay envelopes. Ned crossed to the end of the line to wait his turn.

  The owner of the mill, Alisdair McCracken, a fair and decent man, handed out a small pocket-size envelope to each of his employees. As Ned stepped forward, McCracken smiled.

  “This is what it's all for, Ned. Spend it wisely,” he said, holding out the envelope.

  Ned took it gratefully. “Don't worry, Mr. McCracken,” Ned replied. “This won't go to waste.”

  ROUND 11

  TOE THE LINE

  THE IMPERIAL HOTEL

  MANSFIELD

  NORTHERN EASTERN VICTORIA

  AUGUST 8, 1874

  Ned eased up on the reins outside the hotel and climbed down from his horse, tying her to a hitching post. He wasn't much of a boozing man, but after a week's back breaking work, he figured he had earned a dram. Or maybe two. Dressed in dark cloth breeches, scuffed Napoleon boots, and a navy duck-coat that had seen better days, he pushed through the door and stepped into the bar. The room was crowded, noisy and a thick pall of cigarette smoke hung in the air. Through the blue haze, Ned saw his cousin, Tom Lloyd standing at the bar with an empty glass.

  Lloyd was a tall strapping man, a few years older than Ned. He had a thick beard, and his dark hair was parted down the middle. He wore a short black coat over a white shirt. Ned approached unseen.

  “As I live and breathe, if it isn't Tom Lloyd,” Ned called.

  Lloyd turned. “Ned! What are you doing here?”

  “I've been working at MacCracken's sawmill for two months,” he replied.

  “And you're only catching up with me now?”

  “Had I known you were here...” Ned paused, then smiled, “I wouldn't have stepped inside.”

  Lloyd took the friendly jibe in good humour.

  The barman approached. “What can I get you gentlemen?” Rogers asked.

  Lloyd turned to Ned. “You buying?”

  Ned grinned. “I'm buying.”

  “A whisky and ginger beer,” Lloyd said.

  “The same for me,” Ned added.

  Rogers poured the drinks and placed them on the bar. Ned handed over a few coins.

  ***

  Rogers put the coins in the till and then looked over his shoulder at the clock. It had already chimed one o'clock, which meant that Wild Wright would arrive soon. The past few weeks had been reasonably peaceful, and Rogers hoped the trend
would continue.

  Sunlight flooded the room as the front door was opened and in stepped Wild Wright, accompanied by his drinking companion Seamus Cameron. Wright looked in cheerful high spirits, as he exchanged greetings with the other patrons. Joking and laughing, he crossed to the bar with four mates in tow.

  “Good afternoon, Wild. What can I get you today?” Rogers asked.

  “I'll start with a half of porter, and the same for my friends here,” Wright replied, with a sweep of his hand. Hearing Wright was buying, several other men quickly lurched to the bar. Wild laughed. “Drink up lads, and never let it be said that Wild Wright was tight with a quid.”

  Rogers dutifully poured the drinks and lined them up on the bar. Wright handed over a pound note. Rogers was rather dubious of the note and held it up to the light to check the watermark. It was there.

  “What'd'ya go an' do that for?” Wright queried, acting insulted. “Don't you trust me?”

  Rogers put the note into the till and handed over the change with a smile. “I trust you Wild. Millions wouldn't,” he quipped.

  Wright laughed again. He picked up the beer and downed the lot in one swallow, then pointed to the empty glass. “Same again!”

  Rogers nodded and took the glass. As he refilled it, he couldn't help but think if Wright kept going like this, he would be rolling drunk in no time. And that meant one thing; trouble!

  ***

  Ned looked over at the gentleman who had just taken a position at the bar. He appeared to be popular among the locals, with several men crossing to his side. But he wasn't popular with Ned. He recognised the cur immediately and his blood started to boil.

  “That's Wild Wright,” Ned exclaimed, his teeth clenched and his brow furrowed.

  Lloyd looked down the bar. “That it is. Mad bastard that one. I'd steer clear if I was you.”

  “I can't do that, I'm afraid. He got me locked away for three years. I've got a score to settle.”

  “Can't you let it slide for the moment?” Lloyd asked, playing the role of the peacemaker.

  But at this moment, Ned didn't feel too peaceable. “No, I bloody well can't,” he spat.

  He downed the last of his drink and pushed away from the bar. As he approached, Wright was oblivious to his presence. Ned tapped him on the shoulder. Wright turned, and his jaw dropped as he recognised the man standing before him. And a man he was. When he had last seen Ned Kelly, he was still a boy.

  “You and I have unfinished business,” Ned growled. “I spent three years in the nick on account of you. You knew that flamin' horse was stolen.”

  “She wasn't stolen. I just borrowed her,” Wright explained, with a mischievous smirk, playing for the cronies at his side.

  They laughed. Ned didn't. It just made him angrier.

  “You owe me,” Ned hissed.

  “You'll get nothing from me, lad, except maybe the toe of my boot to your backside if you don't stop your belly-achin'. I'm trying to have a quiet drink with a few friends.”

  Wright turned his back on Ned. Enraged by Wright's dismissive attitude, Ned grabbed Wright by the shoulder. Wright turned quickly and threw a lusty round-arm punch. Ned expected the cheapshot, and blocked the blow with his forearm. He then thundered a reciprocal punch into the Wright's midsection.

  Wright cursed, his eyes crazy and full of fire. “You're in need of a lesson in manners, young Kelly.”

  ***

  Rogers slapped a hand to his forehead. Trouble had come early. He knew he couldn't stop the inevitable. Once Wright had his blood up, there was no reining him in. But maybe there was a way Rogers could minimise the damage to his property. He hurriedly stepped out from behind the bar and held his hands up as he moved between the aggrieved parties.

  “Now gentlemen, gentlemen,” he pleaded.

  “This is none of your concern, Rogers,” Wright snapped, his clenched fists ready to strike.

  “I do not wish to enter into your dispute. But I have an investment here to protect. Tables, chairs and other fittings, and of course, the welfare of my other patrons. May I suggest an alternative arrangement?”

  Rogers looked over both men. They were not backing down, and although he was speaking, at no time did they take their eyes from each other.

  “What alternative,” Wright queried.

  “It is clear you two men are in disagreement, but I suggest it be settled like gentlemen...”

  “Get to the point,” Wright snarled.

  “A sporting contest,” Rogers said.

  “Sport?” Wright grunted.

  “Yes, gentlemen, a boxing match. I have some equipment upstairs and there is plenty of room behind the hotel. Perhaps you may wish to place a wager on the outcome?”

  “I'll fight him anywhere,” Wright replied.

  Rogers turned to the younger man, who Wright had issue with. He didn't recognise the man, but figured he had no idea what trouble he had let himself in for. A fight with Wild Wright was folly of the highest order.

  “What about you?” Rogers asked.

  “I'll fight,” Ned replied.

  Rogers nodded, outwardly relieved his furnishings were not going to be destroyed once again. “What's your name, lad?”

  “Kelly. Ned Kelly.”

  Rogers pulled a notebook and pencil from the front pocket of his bar-apron and scribbled down the name, and Wright's too, in two separate columns.

  “And who's picking up for you?” Rogers added.

  “What he means, Ned,” Wright interjected, “is who will be picking you up off the ground after I've flattened you.”

  Rogers saw young Kelly tense up, clenching his fists again. He wished Wright would keep his mouth shut. “Who's your second,” Rogers said, changing his wording.

  “Tom. Tom Lloyd,” Kelly said, nodding toward his drinking companion at the bar.

  “And what about you?” Rogers directed the question at Wright.

  “I don't need no second,” Wright replied. “I can take care of business myself. But, Seamus Cameron will be the man in my corner.”

  Rogers scribbled the names down, and then with a grin, stood on a chair so all the patrons in the hotel could see him.

  “Gentlemen,” he called. “As you have no doubt witnessed, we have two gentlemen here who are in disagreement. To settle their dispute, they have agreed to a boxing match which will take place at three o'clock this afternoon in the alley behind the hotel. Till then, I invite you to drink up and if you wish to place a wager, come see me at the bar.”

  The patrons in the hotel started to cheer.

  ***

  Ned felt like he had been conned. He had to sit around till three o'clock. He had to wait ninety minutes before he could get his own back at Wild Wright. Seated at the bar, Tom Lloyd tried to ease his frustration by placing a bet with Rogers.

  “How much do you wish to wager, sir?” Rogers asked.

  Lloyd fished through his pocket and pulled out a sixpence. He tapped Ned on the shoulder.

  “Lend me a couple of shilling,” Lloyd said.

  Ned shook his head. “You're gonna use my own money to bet?” he said.

  “At least I am betting on you,” Lloyd replied.

  Ned relented and fished a few coins out of his pocket and handed them to Lloyd, who in turn passed them to Rogers.

  Rogers counted the coins. “Okay we have three shilling six, and I am offering three-to-one.”

  “Three-to-one!” Ned exclaimed.

  “You know who you're fighting?” Rogers asked.

  “I know he is a low-down, two-faced mongrel who deserves to have his hide tanned,”

  “That may be. But he's also the best brawler I have ever seen. You're gonna have your work cut out for you. If I were you, I'd take it easy on the grog before the fight,” Rogers said.

  “Don't worry about me,” Ned announced.

  “Okay. Okay,” Roger said defensively. “I'll come back for you about half an hour before fight.”

  As Rogers walked away, Lloyd slappe
d a hand on Ned's back. “If I didn't know how rocked-headed you are, I would guess I had just wasted your money,” Lloyd said jovially.

  “It's not wasted,” Ned murmured. “Wild has a reckoning coming, and I intend to deliver it.”

  ***

  Rogers was pleased with himself. He had turned what could have been a disastrous situation into a golden opportunity. News of the fight had spread like wildfire throughout the town, and the bar was now packed to capacity. He even had to call in another bartender to accommodate the demand for refreshment before the bout. Having another staff member behind the bar also allowed him to step out, which he needed to do. He still had a few final preparations to make before the fight began.

  Talking a broom, he stepped out into the alley behind the hotel. It needed to be cleared of refuse. He placed the broom against the wall and picked up several empty wooden beer crates and stacked them neatly against the paling fence which ran at the back of the alley. He also picked up some empty bottles. Satisfied, he started to tack some bunting up along the rear fence. He wanted to create a carnival atmosphere. Lastly, crossing to the centre of the alley, he turned the broom upside down, with the handle he drew a straight line in the sand. This would be the scratch mark, where the fighters would toe the line.

  “What's going on here, Rogers?” a voice called.

  Rogers turned and saw two troopers dressed in blue, walking towards him. He recognised them as Lonigan and Warpole. Sergeant Lonigan, the older of the two officers, had recently transferred to the area from the township of Greta. Rogers had only dealt with him on a couple of occasions, and thought he was arrogant and self-serving. Of course, he would never say that to his face. Warpole, whom Rogers guessed was barely twenty years of age, was a follower. He'd do whatever Lonigan said. Rogers hoped they weren't intending to stop the fight.

  “Good afternoon, officers,” Rogers said cheerily. “I am just setting up for a little sporting competition.”

  “Sport?” Lonigan queried.

  “Two gentlemen in the bar had a minor disagreement. Rather than fighting in the hotel, where property could be damaged and bystanders could be hurt, I thought it was better to bring the event outside.”