Sin Studly
04-02-2006, 11:52 PM
Edward Kelly grimaced as the harsh burning liquid touched his tongue. Raw. Very raw, but it would be a good batch. It always was when he stilled it, he'd seen firsthand the consequences of sloppiness and laziness in that field of work. The cast-iron still and sacks of yeast and barley made him think again of his father, Red. They always did. Sold a batch of toxic rotgut marked as sly brandy, as his mother reminded him often, and two days after Christmas he was gone, blind and bloated up with fluid as though he was already a month-old corpse. There were the rumours, of course, in the small communities he'd lived in there were always rumours. Red hadn't been poisoned by a bad brewing, they'd say, he simply drunk himself to death over the forty-five years he'd lived, which was definitely a possibility, as Ned knew. More troubling were the rumours from the old country, that Red had voluntarily been transported as a police informant to escape justice from the Irish mobs he'd grassed up. But rumours like that would lead to a broken mouth for any man saying it, while Ned was around at least.
Considering his father's death, Ned reflected that there were other occupations he would prefer to guarding the fermenting mash in the coldest winter of sixteen years. So proud he was of the days when he could proclaim himself to be a feller and splitter, or even his short-lived career as a bareknuckled prizefighter. But darkly, he remembered occupations he'd just as soon not return to, like his month-long crime spree of horse thieving and armed robbery with the dashing bushranger Harry Power. Those hard times had sickened his young heart, and he had returned to his parents half-starved and delirious from exposure a short time before Power's charmed life as a highwayman came to an end at the Beechworth Gaol's gallows. Indeed, he wished he could return to his days as a labourer, but as a fugitive of the law, and with his mother and infant sister struggling to stay alive in the dank of the Beechworth cells, there was nothing else he could do to feed his brother and sisters and still save up enough of a surety to secure her release from the gaol.
Lost in his reflections, the distant rifle shots brought him to attention, startling him so badly he almost cried out aloud. Joe Byrne, his closest friend, picked up the rickety sawed-off shotgun, almost falling apart with age and use. "I'm supposin' that'll be the troopers"
"Aye", replied Ned, as he slipped his tiny .38 revolver into his pocket and lifted his enormous carbine. A .577 muzzle-loading Enfield, it was shipped in from Africa, the recycled tool of a mighty Empire. With its enormous bore it was obviously designed for piercing the skulls and chests of elephants, not men ; and it's unsuitability for bush combat was increased by the fact that the stock and most of the barrel had been filed off. The stock was tightly bound with string and wax, and dwarfing Ned's large hands it looked like a comically oversized pistol.
Riding hard into the wilderness to greet the interlopers, they stopped overnight and snuggled together to escape the freezing cold of the frost. Too cautious to build a fire, they shared a tin of sardines and drank unboiled water from the creek, hoping that any dysentry would fail to strike them until after the battle was over. As they reached the camp, Ned affixed his sash of green over his chest, and the four men set their hats back on their heads and drew the chinstraps up under their noses, the symbol of affiliation with the rebel Greta Mob, those who had fought and died for a Diggers Republic free of the British yoke. Even suave and stylish Joe Byrne wore his hat Greta fashion, despite being appalled by the ridiculousness of it.
"For Ireland, Joe"
"No, for ourselves, Ned. For your mother"
The police encampment in the Stringybark Creek was far from stealthy, the police obviously expecting to find the Kelly Gang several more miles from where they had cleared out the bush for their distilling hut. Aside from the four huge logs felled to provide firing cover in the case of an ambush, there was only a small tent, tethered horses and two policemen tending their fire.
The four men walked towards the camp in a line, with only Ned and Byrne armed, Dan and Steve bravely standing their ground and hoping the police would not notice their empty hands. Ned recognised the policemen, Constable Strahan, the expert tracker who had treated Ned with some kindness in what seemed like another lifetime, and Constable Flood, the hulking brutal trooper who had once declared that he would shoot Ned down like a dog and riddle him with dozens of balls and bullets before asking him to surrender. They stepped closer to the campsite, got to thirty yards before Ned took the initiative.
"Bail up! Throw up your hands!", shouted Ned. Flood's hands went up immediately, but Scanlon dived for the cover of the fallen log. As he leaned over it aiming his pistol at Dan, a thundering crack sent birds fleeing their trees, and for a split-second Ned seemed to disappear in the smoke and fire of his enormous carbine. The massive lead ball struck Scanlon in the eye, blowing out the back of his head in an explosion of gore followed by the fine red mist of blood. The shock of the passing ball had mashed and mangled his brains, yet he did not die. Throwing down his gun he stood to his feat and screamed "God! Oh God, I surrender!"
He staggered foward, clutching at his ruined eye, before tripping over the log and thrashing around wildly in the bushes, screaming all the while. Flood, his face drained of all colour, tried to avert his eyes from the horrible death throes of his comrade, and looked instead to the Kelly Gang advancing on him.
It was then that Ned realised his mistake. The man he thought was Flood had indeed sported a full black beard similar to Ned's enemy, but he was gaunt, thinner in the face. He was a stranger. Joe Byrne looked up from the now-dead body of Scanlon, to report that his identity too had been mistaken. The man they recognised as Scanlon was Constable Lonigan, the man who had ruptured Ned's testicles and pistol-whipped his scalp open in a brawl outside the Benella blacksmiths. The man who had caused Ned to vow, in front of dozens of witnesses, that 'If I ever kill a man, Lonigan, you shall be the first'. Ned had spared the life of the man he thought was his enemy, and shot the man he thought was his friend, only to find he had instead killed the only man he had been heard to threaten.
The ironies meant little, however. A policeman was dead, and Ned was his killer.
Considering his father's death, Ned reflected that there were other occupations he would prefer to guarding the fermenting mash in the coldest winter of sixteen years. So proud he was of the days when he could proclaim himself to be a feller and splitter, or even his short-lived career as a bareknuckled prizefighter. But darkly, he remembered occupations he'd just as soon not return to, like his month-long crime spree of horse thieving and armed robbery with the dashing bushranger Harry Power. Those hard times had sickened his young heart, and he had returned to his parents half-starved and delirious from exposure a short time before Power's charmed life as a highwayman came to an end at the Beechworth Gaol's gallows. Indeed, he wished he could return to his days as a labourer, but as a fugitive of the law, and with his mother and infant sister struggling to stay alive in the dank of the Beechworth cells, there was nothing else he could do to feed his brother and sisters and still save up enough of a surety to secure her release from the gaol.
Lost in his reflections, the distant rifle shots brought him to attention, startling him so badly he almost cried out aloud. Joe Byrne, his closest friend, picked up the rickety sawed-off shotgun, almost falling apart with age and use. "I'm supposin' that'll be the troopers"
"Aye", replied Ned, as he slipped his tiny .38 revolver into his pocket and lifted his enormous carbine. A .577 muzzle-loading Enfield, it was shipped in from Africa, the recycled tool of a mighty Empire. With its enormous bore it was obviously designed for piercing the skulls and chests of elephants, not men ; and it's unsuitability for bush combat was increased by the fact that the stock and most of the barrel had been filed off. The stock was tightly bound with string and wax, and dwarfing Ned's large hands it looked like a comically oversized pistol.
Riding hard into the wilderness to greet the interlopers, they stopped overnight and snuggled together to escape the freezing cold of the frost. Too cautious to build a fire, they shared a tin of sardines and drank unboiled water from the creek, hoping that any dysentry would fail to strike them until after the battle was over. As they reached the camp, Ned affixed his sash of green over his chest, and the four men set their hats back on their heads and drew the chinstraps up under their noses, the symbol of affiliation with the rebel Greta Mob, those who had fought and died for a Diggers Republic free of the British yoke. Even suave and stylish Joe Byrne wore his hat Greta fashion, despite being appalled by the ridiculousness of it.
"For Ireland, Joe"
"No, for ourselves, Ned. For your mother"
The police encampment in the Stringybark Creek was far from stealthy, the police obviously expecting to find the Kelly Gang several more miles from where they had cleared out the bush for their distilling hut. Aside from the four huge logs felled to provide firing cover in the case of an ambush, there was only a small tent, tethered horses and two policemen tending their fire.
The four men walked towards the camp in a line, with only Ned and Byrne armed, Dan and Steve bravely standing their ground and hoping the police would not notice their empty hands. Ned recognised the policemen, Constable Strahan, the expert tracker who had treated Ned with some kindness in what seemed like another lifetime, and Constable Flood, the hulking brutal trooper who had once declared that he would shoot Ned down like a dog and riddle him with dozens of balls and bullets before asking him to surrender. They stepped closer to the campsite, got to thirty yards before Ned took the initiative.
"Bail up! Throw up your hands!", shouted Ned. Flood's hands went up immediately, but Scanlon dived for the cover of the fallen log. As he leaned over it aiming his pistol at Dan, a thundering crack sent birds fleeing their trees, and for a split-second Ned seemed to disappear in the smoke and fire of his enormous carbine. The massive lead ball struck Scanlon in the eye, blowing out the back of his head in an explosion of gore followed by the fine red mist of blood. The shock of the passing ball had mashed and mangled his brains, yet he did not die. Throwing down his gun he stood to his feat and screamed "God! Oh God, I surrender!"
He staggered foward, clutching at his ruined eye, before tripping over the log and thrashing around wildly in the bushes, screaming all the while. Flood, his face drained of all colour, tried to avert his eyes from the horrible death throes of his comrade, and looked instead to the Kelly Gang advancing on him.
It was then that Ned realised his mistake. The man he thought was Flood had indeed sported a full black beard similar to Ned's enemy, but he was gaunt, thinner in the face. He was a stranger. Joe Byrne looked up from the now-dead body of Scanlon, to report that his identity too had been mistaken. The man they recognised as Scanlon was Constable Lonigan, the man who had ruptured Ned's testicles and pistol-whipped his scalp open in a brawl outside the Benella blacksmiths. The man who had caused Ned to vow, in front of dozens of witnesses, that 'If I ever kill a man, Lonigan, you shall be the first'. Ned had spared the life of the man he thought was his enemy, and shot the man he thought was his friend, only to find he had instead killed the only man he had been heard to threaten.
The ironies meant little, however. A policeman was dead, and Ned was his killer.