2. Wild Colonial Boy
What if you were there...
The Irish are all the same. A bunch of brawling thieves. And don’t tell me I’ve got no right to say that. I should know, I live among a great brood of them—the Kellys and their relations the Quinns and the Lloyds. I’m no squatter. I’ve worked hard all my life. I’ve paid for my land, all 250 acres of it, with the sweat off my brow. No one could call me rich, but compared to the Kelly clan I’m a wealthy man. They live in ramshackle huts, whole families in one room like herds of animals.
Old Mr Quinn’s not a bad bloke, but his sons are a pack of louts. Nothing’s safe. I have to keep my eyes on my few horses day and night, for fear of them disappearing. The women aren’t much better than the men. You couldn’t call them ladies. They scream abuse at you if you so much as look at them and they seem to marry fellows even worse than their brothers. I don’t know what’s to become of this colony if these are the sort of people who are allowed to settle. I’d rather have the convicts. Most of them have had the flashness knocked out of them by the time they’re freed.
I thought Red Kelly might make something of himself, but he didn’t. He turned to drink, God rest his soul. Now his wife and children are left to fend for themselves. The boys are always in trouble. If they’re not stealing chickens, they’re “borrowing” horses which they ride around, jumping fences and creeks. Sometimes the owners find the horses back in their paddocks a week or two later, exhausted and in need of being reshod. Sometimes they never see them again.
One of my horses went missing the week before last. A fine black mare with a flash on her head shaped like a diamond. I’d sent one of the farmhands over to the Quinns’ and the Kellys’ to scout around and see if he could find the horse, but there was no sign of her. I even told him to offer a reward for her return. But they were all playing dumb. I thought I’d seen the last of her.
Then the oldest of the Kelly boys came up to the house today. Ned, I think his name is. There he was with his hat pushed back on his head wearing a patched shirt and boots three sizes too big for him. He’d obviously just combed his hair for the visit. He has these dark penetrating eyes—I felt like he was seeing right into me, reading my thoughts. He was holding my mare.
“I found this horse wandering up in the Strathbogie Ranges,” he said, those eyes now wide and innocent. “I thought she might be the one that you lost.”
It was my horse all right. Even if she didn’t have my brand on it, I would have recognised the white mark on her head anywhere. The lad was stroking the animal’s head as he spoke. The horse, which is a nervous beast, was nuzzling his hand like she’d known him all her life. There was no way in the world that horse had been living wild in the bush for two weeks. It had been well fed and groomed as well. The lad had obviously stolen her. Sure enough. What did he say next?
“I’ll be entitled to the reward then. What was it? Fifteen shillings?” Bold as brass even though he can’t be any older than 12.
“You get outta my sight before I tan your hide,” I told him.
I can’t repeat the foul mouthful I got in return.
Still, the horse is in better condition than when it went missing. The boy obviously knows a bit about horses. Pity he can’t put it to better use, but with his father gone and no one to guide him but his larrikin uncles, I can’t see him making anything of himself.
Jacob Barker, selector
Early Days
“Everyone looks on me like a black snake.”
Letter to Sergeant Babington, July 1870
Ned Kelly was born in 1854 in the bush not far north of Melbourne. His father was called Red because of his red hair. He was a freed Irish convict, who had served his seven-year sentence in the penal colony of Van Diemen’s Land (present day Tasmania) for stealing two pigs. Ned’s mother, Ellen, was
What if you were there...
The Irish are all the same. A bunch of brawling thieves. And don’t tell me I’ve got no right to say that. I should know, I live among a great brood of them—the Kellys and their relations the Quinns and the Lloyds. I’m no squatter. I’ve worked hard all my life. I’ve paid for my land, all 250 acres of it, with the sweat off my brow. No one could call me rich, but compared to the Kelly clan I’m a wealthy man. They live in ramshackle huts, whole families in one room like herds of animals.
Old Mr Quinn’s not a bad bloke, but his sons are a pack of louts. Nothing’s safe. I have to keep my eyes on my few horses day and night, for fear of them disappearing. The women aren’t much better than the men. You couldn’t call them ladies. They scream abuse at you if you so much as look at them and they seem to marry fellows even worse than their brothers. I don’t know what’s to become of this colony if these are the sort of people who are allowed to settle. I’d rather have the convicts. Most of them have had the flashness knocked out of them by the time they’re freed.
I thought Red Kelly might make something of himself, but he didn’t. He turned to drink, God rest his soul. Now his wife and children are left to fend for themselves. The boys are always in trouble. If they’re not stealing chickens, they’re “borrowing” horses which they ride around, jumping fences and creeks. Sometimes the owners find the horses back in their paddocks a week or two later, exhausted and in need of being reshod. Sometimes they never see them again.
One of my horses went missing the week before last. A fine black mare with a flash on her head shaped like a diamond. I’d sent one of the farmhands over to the Quinns’ and the Kellys’ to scout around and see if he could find the horse, but there was no sign of her. I even told him to offer a reward for her return. But they were all playing dumb. I thought I’d seen the last of her.
Then the oldest of the Kelly boys came up to the house today. Ned, I think his name is. There he was with his hat pushed back on his head wearing a patched shirt and boots three sizes too big for him. He’d obviously just combed his hair for the visit. He has these dark penetrating eyes—I felt like he was seeing right into me, reading my thoughts. He was holding my mare.
“I found this horse wandering up in the Strathbogie Ranges,” he said, those eyes now wide and innocent. “I thought she might be the one that you lost.”
It was my horse all right. Even if she didn’t have my brand on it, I would have recognised the white mark on her head anywhere. The lad was stroking the animal’s head as he spoke. The horse, which is a nervous beast, was nuzzling his hand like she’d known him all her life. There was no way in the world that horse had been living wild in the bush for two weeks. It had been well fed and groomed as well. The lad had obviously stolen her. Sure enough. What did he say next?
“I’ll be entitled to the reward then. What was it? Fifteen shillings?” Bold as brass even though he can’t be any older than 12.
“You get outta my sight before I tan your hide,” I told him.
I can’t repeat the foul mouthful I got in return.
Still, the horse is in better condition than when it went missing. The boy obviously knows a bit about horses. Pity he can’t put it to better use, but with his father gone and no one to guide him but his larrikin uncles, I can’t see him making anything of himself.
Jacob Barker, selector
Early Days
“Everyone looks on me like a black snake.”
Letter to Sergeant Babington, July 1870
Ned Kelly was born in 1854 in the bush not far north of Melbourne. His father was called Red because of his red hair. He was a freed Irish convict, who had served his seven-year sentence in the penal colony of Van Diemen’s Land (present day Tasmania) for stealing two pigs. Ned’s mother, Ellen, was
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