by Jack Tunney
“Stand still you slippery cove,” Wright bellowed, clearly frustrated.
Ned grinned. “Come and get me.”
Wright growled and bounded forward. This time Ned didn't step aside. He figured Wright would be expecting it. Instead, he held his ground and fired out a sharp left jab, followed by a straight right to his belly. Wright dropped to his hands and knees and began to cough.
As Ned crossed to Tom Lloyd and sat down, he watched Wright scrambling to his feet, holding his stomach. It was then he realised before the fight, Wright had not eased up on the boozing. Ned was sure he could use that to his advantage.
Ned grinned.
“What's so amusing?” Lloyd asked.
“I think it's time we had a bit of fun with Mr. Wright,” Ned said cryptically.
“Fun?” Lloyd shook his head. “Just don't get killed.”
“Time,” Rogers called.
Ned marched out to scratch and put his best foot forward. Wright warily did likewise.
“Fight!”
Ned planted his foot and swinging from the hip, slammed a hard right into Wright's breadbasket. Wright coughed up a mouthful of porter tinged spittle and dropped to his knees.
Ned stepped back as Wright fought to get back to his feet. On unsteady legs he managed to make it across to his second, only to have Rogers call time.
Wright turned around and came back to the scratch line.
“Fight!”
Ned repeated the move, but this time he didn't catch Wright off guard. Wild rode out the blow and threw a straight right. Ned ducked under it and thundered two hard lefts just under Wright's ribcage. The older man's eyes bulged and he grimaced, clearly in pain.
But still he stood.
Ned went downstairs again. One shot to the stomach, another to the chest. Wild backpedaled, choking back the bile rising in his throat.
“What are you doing you cheeky bastard,” Wright spat. “You here to fight or are you trying to bring up my lunch?”
Ned ignored him, and pounded another solid shot into Wright's belly.
Wright dropped to his hands and knees and threw up on the ground. Ned turned his head away as the crowd laughed.
“You want to go on, Wild?” Rogers asked.
“Course I want to bloody go on,” Wright bellowed with black vomitus dribbling from his lips. “I ain't gonna let this upstart show me up.”
Wright got to his feet and staggered to his waiting second.
***
Constable Lonigan didn't like the way the fight had changed. Wild Wright was slowing down and young Ned Kelly was gaining the ascendency. He had only allowed the fight to happen so he could see Kelly beaten and humiliated. But that was not happening. Lonigan wondered if there was a way he could motivate Wright to do better.
He pushed through the crowd to Wright, who was still seated on Cameron's knee, and tapped him on the shoulder. Wright turned.
“There's ten quid in it for you, if you can finish off Kelly this round,” Lonigan said quietly.
Wright snorted. “Beggin' your pardon, Sergeant, but the quarrel is between me and Mr. Kelly. You can kindly take your blood money and stick it up your arse.”
“Time,” Rogers called.
Lonigan seethed with anger as Wright stood and walked to the line. He should have realised Wright was just as bad as Kelly. They were both thieving coves who belonged behind bars. Lonigan considered stopping the fight, but knew it was too late now, and he would only incur the wrath of the spectators. The fight would continue.
***
Wright may have had issues with Kelly, but that didn't mean he was going to side with the traps. Lonigan had a damn cheek offering money to him. Besides, it was not like Wright was holding back. What did Lonigan want him to do? Beat him with an iron club?
That was the problem with people like Lonigan – they weren't prepared to work or fight for their rewards. The squatters, bankers and businessmen had made them soft, with their endless bribes and gratuities. The Lonigan's of the world were always looking for an easy option to get their way. They had no honor.
Wright decided Ned Kelly was worth ten men like Lonigan. Ned was prepared to stand up and fight for his rights, and that had to be admired.
***
During the time between rounds, Ned had seen Lonigan at Wright's side. Naturally he was suspicious. He wondered what the trooper had said.
Rogers called, “Fight!”
As both fighters squared off, Ned hissed, “I knew you were a low dog, but I never thought you'd be conspiring with the traps.”
Ned threw a sharp left, which Wright parried.
As Wright circled around, he replied, “Think of me what you will, Ned, but that's one thing you won't find me doing. I told him to stick his money.”
Ned nodded, comprehending what had happened. Lonigan had made an offer, but it had been rejected. Wright had done the proper thing.
Ned and Wright may have been opponents, but they were united in their hatred of the Victorian Colonial Police Force. They had both spent time at Her Majesty's leisure on account of corrupt traps. To the last man, Ned considered the Police Force a parcel of big ugly fat-necked wombat headed big bellied magpie-legged narrow-hipped splaw-footed sons of Irish Bailiffs or english [sic] landlords.
But despite their common ground, Ned and Wright still had a dispute to settle, one which had been going for over an hour. The thirteenth round was the longest yet. For sixteen minutes, they traded blows, both men refusing to fall.
Wright feinted with his left hand, leaving Ned wrong footed. By the time he corrected himself, Wright was all over him, firing bombs with his right hand. As Ned tried to duck under a swung fist, he was struck on the temple and fell to the ground.
Ned didn't do much better over the next six rounds. Wright was not only a fearsome fighter, but he also had an enormous capacity to endure punishment. Ned had landed some good shots, but Wright had shrugged them off and kept coming at him. Another wild-right sent Ned crashing to the ground.
Ned hurt all over, as he struggled to get to his feet. For a fraction of a second he considered calling it quits. But then he thought back to the three long years he had spent behind bars.
What was his life worth?
How much did Wright owe him for that time?
Ned wasn't going to let the bastard walk away Scot-free, that was for damn sure. He pushed himself to his feet and walked over to Lloyd who was ready and waiting, but Ned didn't sit down.
“What are you doing you mad bugger? Sit down,” Lloyd said.
“I'm good,” Ned replied, bouncing on his toes, psyching himself up for the twentieth round.
***
Wright was surprised Kelly was still standing. He had to give it to the boy, he was a real fighter. But something had to give soon. Wright got to his feet and approached the line. Blood was streaming from both his nostrils, flowing down his moustache and through his beard. He looked across at Ned. The young man's face had not gone unscathed either. He had blood trailing from his nose and the corner of his mouth, his eyes were blackened, and a large purple mouse on his left cheek. Both men's knuckles were black and swollen.
Souvenirs of battle, Wright thought.
“Gentlemen, fight,” Rogers called.
Neither man moved quickly. Wright was the first to attack throwing a barrage of punches. There was no finesse in his style. He was fighting purely by instinct. Kelly blocked the first couple, but the third tagged him on the chin. Wright saw Ned’s head roll back, and he hoped that would be the end of it. He willed young Kelly to fall. But the young man didn't. He planted his feet and raised his fists defiantly.
“That the best you can do?” Kelly called.
Wright grunted, and stepped forward, his right arm swinging low and wide. It thundered into Kelly's shoulder.
“One more,” the young fighter teased.
Wright obliged. He'd give him more than one. He fired a left jab, then a straight right, and was leaning back to throw an
uppercut. Then he realised too late, he had left himself open. Wide open.
Kelly bounded forward and threw a powerful right cross. Wright saw the punch coming, but was too tired and too slow to get out of the way. It landed cleanly on the point of the jaw. For a second, Wright thought he could ride out the punch, but his legs had other ideas. Like rubber, they folded beneath him, and he found himself falling to the ground.
***
Kelly looked down at Wright who pushed himself up onto one elbow. Through swollen eyelids, Wright's eyes darted around trying to focus. Blood spilled over his top lip and ran down his whiskers.
Rogers had started the count. Thirty seconds. As each second passed, he'd slap his hands together, one on top of the other.
“...seven...eight...”
Wright swiveled his head around and looked across at Cameron and his supporters, who were urging him to get up and continue. He still had twenty seconds to get to his feet.
“Come on, Wild, get up!” Cameron cried.
“Get on your feet. Finish him!” another yelled.
“...nineteen...twenty...twenty-one...”
Ned knew Wright hadn't given up yet. There was still fight in the dog. He watched as Wright climbed to his feet once more. His legs were rubbery, and he couldn't hold his head straight. He took one step toward the scratch line and stumbled, falling to the ground again.
On his knees, he looked across to his supporters and shook his head. “Sorry boys. I'm beat,” Wright muttered.
Wright's head lolled forward onto his chest, and he fell sideways to dirt.
He was out.
Ned's supporters cheered and threw their hats into the air. Tom Lloyd rushed across to Ned's side and slapped him on the shoulder.
“You did it!” Lloyd exclaimed. He then raised Ned's arm. “The winner!”
Rogers stepped across and raised Ned's other arm. “The winner is Ned Kelly,” Rogers yelled over the crowd. “All bets will be settled in the hotel.”
Ned couldn't believe he had won. He had beaten Wild Wright. Before Ned knew what was happening, his supporters lifted him off his feet and chaired him toward the hotel door.
As he was carried along, he couldn't help but notice troopers Lonigan and Warpole staring up at him from the back of the crowd. Ned could see the disappointment etched into their faces. As Ned's eyes met Lonigan's, Ned gave a mock salute. Lonigan sneered and shook his head. He then spat on the ground, before turning and walking off with Warpole. Ned laughed. The beating he had just endured was worth it, just to see the look on the faces of the traps when he won.
ROUND 13
A QUIET PINT
THE IMPERIAL HOTEL
MANSFIELD
NORTHERN EASTERN VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA
AUGUST 8, 1874
The noise inside the Imperial Hotel was deafening. After the fight, the hotel was packed to the rafters, much to hotelier, Ethan Rogers delight. Word of the epic battle had spread, and many townsfolk had turned up to bask in the glory, even though they had not been witnesses to the event itself. Rogers was making money hand over fist at the bar, as beer and whiskey flowed freely.
Ned Kelly could barely keep his eyes open, his chin resting on his chest. He sat in the corner of Rogers' hotel with four glasses of porter lined up on the table before him. The drinks had been paid for by those who had bet on Ned to win the fight. Well-wishers kept approaching him and offering their congratulations. Ned knew they meant well, but wished they would leave him alone. He hurt all over.
The bar went quiet as the main door was pushed open. Ned lifted his head to see who or what had interrupted the celebration, but he couldn't see through the wall of people standing before him. He was worried it was the traps sticking their unwelcome noses in. The patrons parted as a man pushed through the crowd. He finally came into view, walking up to Ned's table.
Ned was surprised to see Wild Wright. He was now dressed in his regular clothes, a shirt and breeches. He held his hat in his hands before him. His face was marked and bruised, the tell-tale souvenirs from their encounter visible for all to see.
Ned waited for him to speak.
Wright shifted his weight, clearly sore from the fight. He cleared his throat and began. “You fought one hell of a fight today, Ned,” Wright said through swollen lips. He held out his hand above the glasses on the table. “Are we square now?”
Ned nodded and shook Wright's hand.
“We're square, you mad bugger,” Ned answered. He indicated the drinks on the table. “You better help me knock these back. There's no way I can finish them on my own.”
Wright pulled up a chair and sat down opposite Ned, then reached for one of the glasses of porter. He raised it to his lips and drank.
As he put the glass back on the table, he nodded his appreciation and said, “I think we earned these drinks today.”
“That we did,” Ned agreed. “But there has to be a better way to get a free drink around here than slugging it out two hours.”
“Right you are lad. What you have in mind?”
EPILOGUE
SUCH IS LIFE
MELBOURNE GAOL
COLONY OF VICTORIA, AUSTRALIA,
NOVEMBER 10, 1880
Hangman, slack your rope; will you slack it for a while?
For I see my brother coming; riding o'er yonder style.
Brother, did you bring me gold; or silver to pay my fee?
For to save my body from the cold clay ground,
My neck from the gallows tree.
Hangman / The Prickilie Bush (Traditional)
“I've got to say, Ned, you've got a strange way of making friends,” Father O'Hea said, stretching his arms and legs. Ned realised he had been talking for almost an hour. The priest had been seated on the edge of the tiny stool the whole time.
“That I have,” Ned replied. “But I have kept you too long. I can't keep you here all night listening to my tall tales.”
O'Hea nodded. He lurched to his feet and picked up the wooden stool he had been seated on. Ned rose too. “Thanks for coming by Father, and make sure the letter gets to Ma and Maggie.”
“I will.”
They shook hands, and O'Hea walked to the door and knocked loudly. The hatch on the cell door opened, the beady eyes of the warder stared through the bars.
“I'm done here,” O'Hea said.
“Against the wall, Kelly,” the warder snapped.
Ned moved to the rear wall, and the door was opened.
O'Hea turned back. “Go with God, son,” he said.
Ned nodded. “I will, Father.”
O'Hea stepped out and the door was slammed closed, the sound echoing through the cell. Ned was alone again. He crossed to his bunk and sat down, resting his head against the whitewashed wall. All that was left was the interminable wait until dawn. Ned knew he would not be able to sleep.
But he had enjoyed telling O'Hea the tale of how he and Wild Wright had become acquainted. Since the fight they had become firm friends. After the shootout at Stringybark Creek, when Ned and his gang had fled into the bush, it had been Wright who had brought them provisions. After the siege at Glenrowan, he had been one of the party that claimed the remains of Steve Hart, and Ned's brother, Dan. Wright had even tried to visit him in Gaol, but had been refused entry as he had been deemed undesirable. Ned had to laugh at that. He couldn't imagine what they thought they'd conspire to do. Break out of Gaol? Not likely. Ned knew his time had come.
Life is short and friends are few, so make sure the ones you have are good ones, Ned mused. He had to admit, in Wild Wright he had one of the best.
***
Ned Kelly was hung at 10:04 am, at Melbourne Gaol on Thursday, November 11th 1880. His last words were said to be, “Ah well, I suppose it has come to this. Such is life...”
But in books, film and song, his legend lives on.
THE IRON FISTS OF NED KELLY
You've heard the story of the man in iron,
and how the troopers hunted him
down-Oh!
Well, here's a tale you may not know,
'bout Ned Kelly and his fists of iron-Oh!
Iron-Oh, Iron-Oh,
Well, here's a tale you may not know,
'bout Ned Kelly and his fists of iron-Oh!
The judge said horse stealing was the crime,
An innocent man, he sent down-Oh!
Three years in a prison cell,
behind those bars of iron-Oh!
Iron-Oh, Iron-Oh,
Three years in a prison cell,
behind those bars of iron-Oh!
The thief in question was 'Wild' Wright,
and when they met in town-Oh!
Ned challenged him to a bareknuckle fight,
make him feel those fists of iron-Oh!
Iron-Oh, Iron-Oh,
He challenged him to a bareknuckle fight,
make him feel those fists of iron-Oh!
For twenty rounds they slugged it out,
the town folk all gathered round-Oh!
Then 'Wild' Wright bit the dust,
beaten by the fists of iron-Oh!
Iron-Oh, Iron-Oh,
Then 'Wild' Wright bit the dust,
beaten by the fists of iron-Oh!
~ AUTHOR'S NOTE ~
This novel is a work of fact based fiction. The key word being fiction. There is very little in the way of genuine information about the fight between Ned Kelly and 'Wild' Wright. It has even been said the fight never occurred – or possibly was a much smaller affair than the legend surrounding it now would suggest. Therefore, the story you have just read is a work of speculative fiction based on the legend, rather than any cold hard fact.
When the idea was floated to write a different kind of Fight Card book, one based on real characters, I immediately knew I wanted to write about Ned Kelly. This is no exaggeration. The email from Fight Card series creator, Paul Bishop, came through to me as I was about to board a train to work. The journey takes sixteen minutes. In that time as the train rattled on, tapping at my phone, I knocked out a one page synopsis of the story and sent it back. Paul approved it on the spot. That easy.
