The Hunt for Ned Kelly

by Sophie Masson

  He calmed down then and said he was very sorry. He had not meant to lie to us, but was afraid we’d be annoyed with him. ‘And besides,’ he added with an impish smile, ‘it was no use, I got nothing from those damn girls. Please forgive me, won’t you?’ He was so charming about it that we could hardly refuse. And besides, we felt a bit bad that we hadn’t told him before. He seemed so desperate. And then he said, but surely we did not really mean to sit on the photo? Even if we did not tell the press about it, and he understood that in a way, we could still print the photograph and sell it for big money to one of the postcard companies. You could sell it under a false name, he said eagerly, he’d be very happy to do that for us, be our go-between so we wouldn’t need to be involved at all. The company would print thousands of them for sale, no-one would know where it had come from, it would be a sure-fire thing. We could share the money, couldn’t we, as we were all friends, so what did we say?

  Ellen said coolly that we needed time to think about it. Elijah looked disappointed for a moment, then brightened and said he’d call on us on Monday and discuss it with us again. And we left it at that, and talked of other things. But it cast quite a chill over the rest of the day.

  May 24

  I suppose we should have expected it, but it is still a shock. Elijah Turner has disappeared—and taken the box of negatives with him! He came to the house a little early, when we were both still at work. As he was a frequent visitor Aunt Julia let him in and unsuspectingly allowed him to wait for us. And then when her back was turned, he rummaged in Ellen’s room and stole the box (which of course Aunt Julia knew nothing about). The gang photo’s gone, as are the photos we took at Eleven Mile Creek, and a few others besides.

  In place of the box, he left a note. It said, Sorry, but I need this more than you do. You don’t understand quite how bad things have been for me. You see, I haven’t sold anything for months and months. Much longer than I told you. And I owe quite a lot of money to some very unpleasant people. This’ll help set me up, clear things. And I promise I’ll send you a share of what I get. Forgive me. ET.

  It was a pathetic letter. Pathetic in both ways: sad but also sickening. Because as Ellen said, who was to know if even now he was telling the whole truth? Tugging at our heartstrings, making us feel sorry for him, just to justify himself for such a low act. Last Saturday had shown us clearly the dark side of Elijah Turner. It was still a shock, though, that he should have fallen so low as to actually steal from a friend.

  Ellen reacted in an unexpected way. ‘I can’t hate him,’ she said. ‘I feel sorry for him that he should be so desperate as to stoop to this, and sorry for ourselves that we won’t see him again, because he was good company, despite his flaws. He was weak. Too hungry to make his name. Fatally unreliable. But I can’t hate him. And if he really is in debt to bad people, then he might actually be in danger, and I can only wish him well.’

  Very forgiving of her, I thought, but I could see what she meant. Besides, she was relieved in a way that the photo had gone. It had taken the decision about it from her and that was it now. Still, it does hurt her too, I think, though she won’t admit it.

  After all, however you like to put it, it is a betrayal. I certainly feel like that. I’d liked him. Trusted him. Believed him. Wished I could be like him, in a way. And now—well, maybe we could forgive him, but things could never be the same again. Even if he should walk through the door this moment with what he’d stolen and with humble apologies. That was the sad thing about it. Our friendship was broken now and could never be fixed.

  He’s gone from his lodgings, of course, just decamped owing the landlady money, without giving an address. I asked Ellen if she was going to try to find out where he had gone and she shook her head. If he manages to sell the photo, good luck to him, she said.

  ‘But do you really think he’ll send us a share?’

  ‘Oh no. But there is nothing we can really do to prove it is our picture without a blaze of publicity we surely do not want, do we, Jamie? Who’s to know what would happen to us, and what our employers would say about it if they knew we were somehow mixed up with the notorious Ned Kelly.’

  She’s right. We surely do not want to find out what would happen then. So that’s that. We draw a line through thought of the photograph of the Kelly gang and the name of Elijah Turner and we get on with our lives. At least that’s what Ellen wants to do. I’m not so sure. I don’t hate him, but it stings, what he did. I don’t see why he should just get away with it. I can’t think what to do about it right now. But everything I knew of Elijah Turner before is coloured by what happened. The dark overwhelms the bright. Maybe Ellen had been wrong about the photo. But he could have tried harder to persuade her; he could have been patient and she might have changed her mind. But he couldn’t wait, and so he did something which now cannot ever be undone.

  June 2

  Report in the paper of a bank robbery near Quirindi in New South Wales. It’s thought to be the work of the Kelly gang, though there are doubts. There is a new man in charge of the Kelly hunt, his name is Superintendent Hare. The paper says the public hopes he will be more successful than the others, who all had to admit defeat. The gang are still at large and there have been sightings of them in various places. Sometimes I think they will never be recaptured.

  No word from Elijah Turner. Not that I expected it. I do not think we will hear of him again, he will not want to face us. And I have seen no reproductions of our photo anywhere yet, though it is early days of course. It strikes me that it will be hard too for him to prove the photo is of what he says and not just a forgery. After all, there were the shadows of the hats over their faces, so it would not be easy to identify them for certain.

  I’ve been reading a lot of books and I will note my favourites here: The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, by Mark Twain; a collection of frightening stories by Edgar Allan Poe; The Princess and the Goblin, by George MacDonald, and an Australian book called His Natural Life, by Marcus Clarke, which is about convicts in the old days in Tasmania. It is a very frightening book too, though in a different way to Edgar Allan Poe. But here’s a strange thing—since that day in the bush I have not been able to open my copy of Lorna Doone.

  June 10

  Had the strangest dream last night. I was in a place that was all white, not like snow, but like fog. I could hear noises in the fog, confused shouts, but I could not see anything. I was walking with my hands held out in front of me, groping my way, when suddenly from out of the fog Elijah Turner’s voice called my name, sounding far away and frightened and lost. And then a dog howled, loud and long, sounding just like Lorna that day in the bush and the fog began to clear and from it loomed a monstrous, faceless, dark figure, tall as a tree. I wanted to run, but was unable to budge a step. Fear filled me like ice and all at once the thing spoke, in a hollow booming voice: ‘In the darkest life, there is a bright side.’ Closer it came, closer, and though the head was quite in shadow and at a strange angle, almost as though it were broken, and the features a mask of blood, I knew at once that it was Ned Kelly.

  What it all means I have no notion. But it was so vivid that I woke in a sweat and lay there for a while with the pictures from it coursing through my brain. I still cannot throw off the pall it cast on my spirit.

  June 23

  Today Sam Ratcliff asked me, quite out of the blue, if I should like to try my hand at writing a small piece. Not for The Age, but for a little paper he and some friends are editing in their spare time. It is intended as light weekend entertainment and there are articles in it about hobbies and books and amusements and so on. He said that he thought I might like to write a light, amusing piece about photography, nothing technical, but based on my experience of assisting Pa and Ellen (I’ve told him a bit about that). At first I was taken aback, but now I am very excited about it and I am already planning the story in my head. Sam says if I can get it written in a day or two it can go in the next issue of their paper. Imagine, seeing my own words
in print! I can hardly wait!

  Sam’s a really nice fellow. He’s the second journalist I’ve got to know. But he’s totally unlike Elijah, thank heavens. He doesn’t talk as much, and he doesn’t push himself forward so much. But he’s quick and clever and I’m beginning to wonder if I should ask him to help me track down our ex-friend and see what’s happened with the photo. But then I hold back, thinking Ellen wouldn’t like it. I keep going into places where they sell postcards and look for one featuring our photo. But no luck yet.

  June 26

  I’ve done it. I wrote my piece, Sam said it was very good and they would definitely run it in the next issue! I decided to write about the human angle, how different people react to having their photograph taken, and the funny things I’d heard and seen when I was helping out. It was only short (Sam said that would do for a start) and I called it ‘The Third Eye’, because that is what Pa sometimes called the camera. Ah, he’d say, the third eye sees things the other two don’t! Sam liked that. He said they might even consider giving me a column called ‘The Third Eye’ in the future.

  I don’t think I’ll sleep well tonight, I am so excited! But tomorrow afternoon I have been asked to do an extra shift at the newspaper, even though it is Sunday—so I had better try to get at least some rest.

  June 27

  Lucky I was at the paper today! There’s dramatic news: Aaron Sherritt was shot dead yesterday in his own home, in front of four policemen who were supposed to be protecting him! The news came through from our correspondent in Beechworth, by wire, this afternoon at four o’clock. The report caused a huge sensation in the newsroom. Everyone stopped working and clustered around as the wire was read out. I will write down some of it here.

  Constable Armstrong, one of a police search party, rode into Beechworth at half-past one o’clock this afternoon, and informed the police that the Kelly gang had been at Sebastopol on the previous evening (Saturday) at six o’clock and that Joe Byrne had shot Aaron Sherritt through the eye and killed him. The gang brought a German to Aaron Sherritt’s hut handcuffed, there being a number of police at the hut at the time, and forced him to ask Sherritt the road to Sebastopol. As soon as Sherritt opened the door a bullet was sent through his eye and another through his chest. The gang also fired seven balls into the sides of the hut, and kept the police prisoners for twelve hours.

  There is more, but that is the bare bones of it. Poor Aaron, it seems his double life caught up with him at last. If there were four policemen in the house, then they must have known his life was in imminent danger. His poor wife Ellen, who is pregnant, and her mother Mrs Barry were there too. Imagine what horror it must have been for them, seeing him shot in front of their very eyes!

  I can hardly believe that the flash young cove I saw swaggering around Beechworth and leaning on the counter at Ingram’s is dead, just as I can hardly believe that Joe Byrne, the merry Mr Cook as we knew him, kind Mr Cook who spoke of feeling the ache of a fatherless child, could be capable of the cold-blooded murder of his childhood friend.

  I didn’t like Aaron much, but surely he didn’t deserve this. No man deserves such a horrible death. This wasn’t a killing in self-defence. They gave him no warning. Lured him to the door, and shot him down like a dog. Seeing those police in the house must have convinced them Aaron had definitely gone over to the other side. It is horrible. I feel sick. And what of the women? How could they do this terrible thing in front of them, who were innocent of anything and had never done them any harm?

  Sam’s excited. He says that the Kelly gang has burst out of hiding with a vengeance. In his opinion something big is going to happen. The police cannot let such a brazen and bloody outrage take place without replying with maximum force. Already questions are being asked as to how the outlaws managed to get to Sherritt’s house unseen, kill him, keep the police at bay, and get away unchallenged. It is, he says, a most lamentable disaster for the police and they will have to respond with as much speed as possible. He has connections in the police and will try to find out as much as he can.

  Later

  Well, Sam was right. The police are pulling out all stops. A special train’s been sent north to Beechworth, packed with police and also a few journalists (including a couple of senior reporters from our paper). It left Spencer Street Station at ten o’clock this evening. The plan’s to corner the gang, force them into making a stand, and capture or kill them once and for all. But Sam reckons the wild card is the Kellys themselves. No-one seems to know quite where the outlaws are right now. They could be miles away and not at all in the mood for a confrontation, but could slip away like ghosts as they have done so many times in the past. But I feel in my bones that this is different, that they are tired of flitting like shadows, tired of having to hide.

  June 28

  I should be exhausted, I only had a couple of hours’ fitful sleep last night. But strangely I feel wide awake, fizzing with alertness. Have taken my diary to work as so much is happening and I don’t want to miss a thing!

  Melbourne is wild with excitement. The city woke to the news that the Kellys are out of hiding and there are crowds of people around the newspaper-stands, elbowing each other to get the first edition of the papers. Aaron’s murder is front-page news, he’s much more famous in death than he was in life. I told Sam I had met him in Beechworth, and what he and his brother said about Ned Kelly and the others. He was agog. Other people overheard us and they all crowded around me, pestering me with questions. It was a very strange feeling, to know more than they did!

  We’re all working like mad today. More and more wires keep coming through from our reporters and correspondents in the north, we can hardly keep up with them. We learn only Joe and Dan were involved in Sherritt’s murder. Nobody’s quite sure where Ned and Steve are. Then we hear that the train was delayed in its arrival and there’s a rumour flying that the outlaws might have blown up part of the track to derail the train! The newsroom is loud with reporters shouting the latest, furiously working to get it all into shape, shoving copy at the boys like me so it can be set and printed quickly.

  Then amazing news: the outlaws actually tore up a section of the track, a mile and a half past Glenrowan, but someone warned the police and they stopped the train before it was derailed! Three o’clock in the morning it was, and only then did the police learn that the outlaws were all at Glenrowan, holed up in Jones’ Hotel, where they’d been for at least 24 hours! They’ve taken a lot of hostages and they plan to make some big stand!

  Later

  Running around like a bluebottle fly, delivering wires, throwing copy at the printers, bringing cups of tea to the journalists madly working away! More and more news coming through, it sounds like hell up there!

  Just to keep up, we are printing edition after edition, every couple of hours or so. Like the other errand-boys, I’m run off my feet rushing bundles of newspapers to the stands. The whole city it seems is out in the streets. Offices, homes and shops are empty. Every new edition is snatched by a hundred anxious hands and people crowd around newspaper offices everywhere in Melbourne, desperate for more news. I’ve never seen anything like it. No-one can think of anything else. On one of my runs I get collared by group of people just outside the office and nearly knocked over as they grab at my bundle. I don’t even have enough for them all. Those who don’t get them shout at me for a fool, and beg me to tell them what’s going on now.

  ‘The police have laid siege to the Glenrowan hotel,’ I gabble. ‘It’s right near the station and they just jumped off the train in the dark night and began shooting at the hotel. The gang shot back, they’re all blazing away at each other.’

  Everyone’s silent around me, their eyes glittering with excitement. When I pause for a moment they shout, ‘Go on! Go on!’ I think of all the wires I’ve seen, the amazing story they tell, and it all pours out of me as though I’m there, reporting on it. I feel as though I am there. My voice gets faster and faster, the crowd pushes around me, everyone agog to
hear more, it’s just amazing.

  ‘The first gunfight lasted for about a quarter of an hour, the air full of the whizzing and pinging of bullets, the shrieks and shouts of hostages and bystanders, and clouds of gun-smoke obscuring even the little that could be seen,’ I rush on. ‘One bullet hits home! Superintendent Hare—he’s shot in the wrist and loses a lot of blood, he has to go, and someone else is in charge. The gang open fire again, the police have to duck and take cover behind fences and trees! They fight fiercely, there’s hundreds and hundreds of police, and only the four bushrangers in there, but there’s the hostages too and you can hear them screaming with fright because they can’t get out!’

  ‘What about Ned? Where is he?’ someone shouts.

  ‘Nobody’s sure. Inside the hotel. Or maybe he’s got away.’

  ‘No, not he,’ someone else shouts. ‘He’d never run! Never leave his mates! He’s a brave man!’