The Iron Fists of Ned Kelly (Fight Card)

by Jack Tunney

  Judge Milton continued. “Mr. Gunn would you step forward... Alex Gunn, this court finds you guilty of accessory after the fact. I sentence you to eighteen months imprisonment with hard labour.”

  Ned shook his head. That didn't seem fair. Worst of all, Alex's marriage to Annie would be postponed. He felt sorry for Annie. He knew how excited she had been. But Ned's thoughts drifted back to the here and now. It looked like Milton was giving them all eighteen months. Ned raised his head defiantly as he was called forward. He looked Milton in the eye.

  “Edward Kelly, I sentence you to three years imprisonment with hard labour for feloniously receiving a horse.”

  Three years!

  Ned was outraged.

  Three flamin' years!

  Wright only got eighteen months and he stole the flamin' thing in the first place. Ned's blood boiled.

  “This is not right!” Ned exclaimed.

  Judge Milton banged his gavel. “Order in the court.”

  Be blowed. Ned was not going to take this injustice.

  “Order be damned. Justice be damned. I am going to have my say,” Ned yelled, stepping toward the bench.

  The troopers rushed forward and grabbed Ned by the arms. Young Ned tried to struggle free. He kicked one of the men, and then as he was released, he swung a wild haymaker at the other. The punch missed, and the troopers pounced.

  “Order! Order!” the judge repeated.

  Ned refused to give in. Two other troopers joined the melee. Ned pulled an arm free and once again tried to punch one of the troopers. His lusty blow missed. His arm was quickly ensnared.

  Gritting his teeth he yelled, “There's no justice for Kellys.”

  “Order! Or I will find you in contempt of court.”

  With four men restraining him, Kelly was dragged back alongside Wright and Gunn. With anger in his eyes he looked up at Milton.

  The judge banged his gavel three times to reassert his control.

  “Mr. Kelly. You will be taken from here immediately for transportation to Her Majesty's Prison Pentridge where you will serve out your sentence. It does my heart no good to see a young man like you already so ingrained in the way of the criminal. Hopefully prison will give you time to mend your ways.”

  …does my heart no good…

  Heart! Milton had no heart, Ned thought as he was led away. And it was all Isaiah Wild Wright's fault. But Ned was determined to get his own back. One day, Wild Wright was going to pay for what he had done.

  ROUND 8

  GREYSTONE WALLS

  H.M. PRISON PENTRIDGE, MELBOURNE VICTORIA,

  SEPTEMBER 1871

  At only sixteen years old, some of the lags saw Ned Kelly as an easy touch in prison. One such man was Elliot Brenner. Brenner was bald, short in stature and wide of girth. Subsequently he was nicknamed 'Hog'. From across the prison yard he watched young Kelly sitting against the greystone wall. He also noted Kelly's boots were in far better condition than his own. His pair had a large hole in the left sole that let in water when it rained. It was time to make an exchange.

  Hog shouldered past the other prisoners toward Kelly until he stood directly in front of him, almost blocking the light. Kelly looked up.

  “What do you want?” Kelly queried.

  “That's a nice pair of boots you got there,” Hog said. “Take 'em off.”

  “I am not taking my boots off,” Kelly responded, confused by the strange request.

  “I don't think you understand, boy, I'm not asking. I'm telling.”

  Kelly climbed to his feet, standing a good foot taller than Hog.

  “Go to Hell!” Kelly hissed.

  The kid wanted to learn the hard way, Hog figured. He'd oblige.

  Moving forward, with both hands he pushed Kelly in the chest, forcing him back against the wall. Before the young man had a chance to react, Hog thundered two blows into his midsection. Kelly doubled over.

  “Now give me your boots,” Hog snarled.

  “I said, go to Hell,” Kelly repeated.

  Hog clenched his fists, ready to strike again. However, before he could act, Kelly bounded forward and threw a crunching right cross. It caught Hog on the bridge of the nose. The older man staggered back with blood streaming from his nostrils.

  Anger coursed through his veins.

  “Why you...” Hog charged forward, straight into another blow. This one caught him on the point of the jaw. That was all remembered as darkness washed over him.

  ***

  A prison warder marched Ned to the hole. His tussle with Hog had netted him two weeks in solitary confinement. The Hog, on the other hand, got the soft treatment. He was sent to the infirmary for bed rest. Ned ground his teeth together and cursed the bloated windbag. It was just the latest in the line of endless injustices Ned had had to endure. But he wasn't beaten. They would never beat him.

  The steel door to the hole was opened, and Ned was unceremoniously pushed inside by the warder. The door was slammed shut, blocking out the light. In the darkness, Ned felt his way to the wall and sat down against it. No, they would never beat him.

  ***

  After two weeks, Ned was let out of the hole. The iron door to the cell swung open and a warder stood silhouetted in the door-frame. Ned held up a hand to shield his eyes from the light.

  “Stand up, Prisoner Kelly,” the warder snapped. Ned climbed to his feet and stood up straight, or at least as straight as he could. In the Hole, he had only been given half rations, so he felt weak. “Move forward and hold out your hands,” the Warder added. Ned complied, and the guard slipped a set of bracelets around his wrists. With a hand in the centre of his back, he pushed Ned along the corridor. “Father O'Hea wants to see you before you go to your cell.”

  “What about?” Ned queried.

  “Don't ask questions, boy. Just do as you are told.”

  Ned made the rest of the march in silence. It was a section of the prison he had never been in before, a long whitewashed corridor with green doors along its length. He was called to a halt outside of one of them. The warder knocked on the door.

  “Come in,” a voice responded from within.

  The warder opened the door and pushed Ned into the room, following behind him. Father O'Hea was a short squat man with hard features, dressed in black with a white collar. His expression was one of severe disappointment.

  “Is this Kelly?” the priest asked. He had a soft Irish brogue.

  “Yes,” the warder replied.

  “Take off the cuffs, and you can leave us.”

  “Are you sure, Father? This one has a temper.”

  “Leave us,” O'Hea reiterated.

  The warder uncuffed Ned and reluctantly left the room. Ned stood in silence.

  “What do you have to say for yourself?” O'Hea asked, addressing Ned directly for the first time.

  Ned was confused. He didn't know how to reply.

  “Sorry,” he said with a shrug of the shoulders.

  “Sorry! It's not me you should be saying sorry to,” O'Hea snapped.

  “I ain't gonna say sorry to Hog,” Ned replied defiantly. “That hairless wombat tried to steal me boots.”

  “Nor should you say sorry to him. You should be sorry about letting yourself down.”

  “I don't understand. I have done the best I could.”

  “Best! You're only sixteen and you're already in here, locked away with murderers and thieves.”

  “It's no use, Father. The traps have it in for me.”

  “Don't you give me any of that clap-trap. I have heard it all before. It wasn't my fault, Father, honest. Be a man about it. Every man in prison thinks he is innocent. Maybe you are. Maybe you aren't. That doesn't matter now. What matters is what you're going to do about it.”

  “What can I do?”

  “For starters you can make sure you don't end up in the hole again.”

  “That wasn't my fault either...” Ned started. He didn't get to finish.

  “Haven't you been listening
? You've got three years to serve in here, and if you're going to allow yourself to get suckered into every scrap in the place, then Heaven help you, because I certainly can't.” O'Hea sighed. “You have a rare gift, both brains and strength. Don't waste these gifts. Use it to beat them. Work hard. Keep your nose clean while you're in here. You might even get out early. Wouldn't that be beating the traps?”

  Ned nodded. “I'll try, Father.”

  “No, Ned. Don't try. Do!”

  ***

  Three years later...

  The heavy iron gate swung open and Ned Kelly stepped outside a free man. During his stretch, he had kept out of trouble and served out his time peaceably. He had even learnt a trade, stonemasonry, having worked on the Williamstown pier. For his work, he had been paid three and six. It wasn't even enough for a fare home. But that didn't bother him none. His debt to society had been paid. He had gone to prison as a boy, but was leaving as a man who had his whole life ahead of him.

  He would head home to Eleven Mile Creek, by foot if necessary, see his ma and family. Then, he'd move on. Get a real job. Maybe meet a nice girl and settle down.

  Yep. He had his whole life in front of him.

  ROUND 9

  RETURN TO THE SELECTION

  THE KELLY SELECTION

  ELEVEN MILE CREEK

  EASTERN VICTORIA

  FEBRUARY 1874

  “On a lonely selection far out in the West

  An old woman works all the day without rest,

  And she croons, as she toils 'neath the sky's glassy dome,

  `Sure I'll keep the ould place till the childer come home.'”

  When The Children Come Home (Henry Lawson)

  It took six days for Ned to get back to Eleven Mile Creek. He hitched rides on the back on wagons and bullock drays whenever he could, but much of the journey he had made on foot. He was tired and weary, but his fatigue disappeared as through the trees he saw the stringybark homestead.

  He was home.

  He stopped and placed his meager swag at his feet, then propped himself up against a withered old gum, and absorbed the view. The hut seemed smaller than he remembered, but three years was a long time to be away.

  As good as it was to be back home, his return was tinged with sadness. He knew he wouldn't be staying long. His two terms in prison had both been stitch-ups, and he wasn't going to allow that to happen again. The local traps had it in for him, and he knew they would not let up. If he was going to stay out of trouble, he had to leave the area and start fresh. But he couldn't go without first seeing his ma.

  Then there were his horses. He figured he could sell them and make a tidy profit. The money would come in useful as he started his new life.

  He took a deep breath, picked up his swag and pressed for home.

  ***

  Ned knocked twice on the door. After his time away, it didn't seem right to enter unannounced. He turned the handle and stepped inside. His ma was where he expected her to be, beside the stove. She had a wooden spoon in one hand, and was holding a baby at her side with the other. She too, seemed smaller than he remembered.

  Seated at the dining table was his brother Dan, and his sister Maggie. They all looked up as he entered.

  “Ned,” they cried, clearly surprised to see him.

  Maggie, who was closest, sprang to her feet and dragged him into a crushing embrace. He dropped his swag to the floor.

  “Why didn't you let us know you were out?” she squealed.

  “Figured I'd get here before any message could.”

  She released him from her grasp. “Look at you, you're all grown up. And what's this?” She playfully grabbed his whiskers.

  Ned laughed. “That my girl, is a beard.” Moving further into the room, he crossed to his brother Dan and held out his hand. “Good to see you, Dan.”

  “Welcome home,” his brother replied, speaking with a mouth full of food.

  Ned could see Dan was more interested in scoffing down the pie on a plate in front of him, than greeting his brother. He hadn't changed, Ned noted with amusement. He circled the dining table and approached his mother. With her free hand she hugged him, and kissed him on the cheek.”

  “Welcome home, son.”

  He could see the relief and joy on her face.

  “Good to be back, ma,” he replied, his eyes dropping to the baby on her hip. “This Annie's?”

  “Her name is Anna.”

  “Where is Annie, anyhow?” Ned queried.

  “They didn't tell you?” The joy that Ned had seen in his mother's eyes was now replaced with sadness.

  “Tell me what?”

  “Annie died in childbirth.”

  Ned felt like he had been stabbed in the heart. He bowed his head.

  “Sorry to hear,” he mumbled. He then realised his younger brother Jim was not in the house either. He feared the worst. “... and Jimmy?”

  “He got himself five years in Beechworth Gaol,” she explained. “Stolen cattle, they said.”

  Ned shook his head. “Five years. He's only fifteen.”

  He couldn't help but think that it was another example of the Kelly family being persecuted by the traps. It strengthened his resolve to leave the area. But he wouldn't tell his ma just yet. He had just arrived. It would break her heart.

  “At least you're home,” she added, trying to sound happy. “You must be hungry after your journey. Take a seat. There's still some pie left. You'd better tuck in before Dan eats the lot.”

  Ned forced a smile and sat down at the table. Within seconds a plate was placed in front of him. He bit into the pie. It was good – fresh lamb. That was certainly something he had missed while away, home cooking. The food in prison had barely been edible.

  “How about a nice cup of freshly brewed tea to go with it?” his mother added, as she handed off baby Anna to Maggie.

  Ned knew what she meant, and she didn't mean tea at all. “What's this batch like?”

  Ellen didn't answer. She retrieved a whisky bottle from the bottom shelf of a cupboard and put two glasses on the table.

  “What about me, ma?” Dan asked.

  “You're too young for hard liquor, Dan,” Ned said.

  “I've had it before,” Dan protested.

  Ned nodded. Dan had certainly grown some. He was now thirteen, and no longer the scamp with the runny nose and the scabs on his knees. Also, Ned figured, if Jimmy was in the lockup, then it would have been Dan who had been doing the hard labour around the farm. He was no longer a boy, but a young man. Time had marched on while he was gone.

  Ellen put a third glass down, and poured three healthy shots. Maggie had no interest in partaking.

  “Here's to family,” Ellen said, raising her glass.

  “Here's to family,” Ned and Dan replied, raising theirs.

  Ned knocked back the whisky.

  Whoa! It was exactly as he remembered it – rough as guts and harsh on the back of the throat. He grinned.

  “One more?” his mother asked.

  Ned shook his head and placed his hand over the top of his glass so she couldn't pour another.

  “No thanks, ma. One's enough for me. Besides, I have to check on my horses.” Once again, the expression on his mother's face told him something was wrong. “What is it?” he queried.

  “I'm sorry Ned, but they're not there,” she responded, lowering her head.

  “What do you mean not there?” Ned queried, with a furrowed brow.

  “They were stolen. We reckon it was Constable Flood.”

  “Why didn't you do something?” Ned said angrily.

  “What could I do, son? The thief was a policeman. It would be my word against his. Do you think they would believe a Kelly?”

  Ned nodded. He understood, all right. It wasn't his mother's fault.

  “Don't worry about it, ma,” Ned responded. “I am getting out of the horse game anyway.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Ned could see she was troubled by his response. H
e didn't know how to break the news to her gently.

  “They say they're looking for shearers in the Riverina,” he said.

  “You're leaving? But you just got back. You belong here, close to your family.”

  Ned smiled. He knew she meant well. “It'll be okay, ma. I'll write whenever I can.”

  A tear had formed in her eye now. She quickly wiped it away. “Make sure that you do,” she said as leaned across and placed a hand on his shoulder. “When are you leaving?”

  “First light.”

  ROUND 10

  STRAIGHT AND NARROW

  PRICE'S SHEARING SHED

  JERILDERIE

  COLONY OF NEW SOUTH WALES, AUSTRALIA,

  MARCH 1874

  “Out on the board the old shearer stands,

  Grasping his shears in his thin bony hand,

  Fixed is his gaze on a bare-bellied yoe,

  Glory, if he gets her won’t he make the ringer go.”

  Click Goes the Shears – AKA: The Bare Belled Ewe

  (Attributed to C. C. Eynesbury / H.C. Work)

  The sun hammered down on the shearing shed's iron roof. It was like an oven inside. Ned wiped the sweat from his brow, then grabbed the next ewe by the hind legs, flipped her over onto her back, and dragged her to his stall. The sheep bleated in protest.

  He held the sheep down with one hand and a knee, while wielding the shears in his free hand. Cutting fast and cleanly, he clipped the wool away from the ewe's body. Once he was done, he released the animal, which skittled to its feet. He pushed her down a chute into a holding pen outside. That was the twenty-sixth sheep he had shorn that day. But Ned knew there would not be too many to follow her. Mr. Price's flock was almost done, and his shed was the last of the season.

  The boss of the board, a thin boney man in a battered trilby, named Foley, came alongside Ned's pen, resting his hand on the gate.

  “We'll be settling up at the end of the day. That okay with you?” Foley said. It wasn't really a question, more of a statement.

  Ned nodded. “Fine, Mr. Foley.”