THE KELLYS

It’s hard to imagine how any more writing could more clearly amplify
A tale known so well as one I’ll now tell, but I’ll promise to give it a try.
In today’s rush and bustle where hearts with no muscle give in when they’re simply distressed,
There’s a lesson to learn from one family’s concern of relationships put to the test.

Our family was known to the law from the start and that’s how the trouble began.
The first man was Irish, a convict as well, and he knew when he fathered his clan
That the coats would be watching their every move from daylight to dusk and between,
So he emphasised early in rough hurly-burly no Kelly could ever be seen

His children learned fast that crime doesn’t pay and when their dad died they were wise.
His legacy then, read, “Be fair to all men, look after you mum, win first prize”.
So Ned at twelve years, despite his young fears became the breadwinner for all,
But the law kept its eye out attempting to spy the first moment the poor lad might fall.

And fall soon he did. That defiant young kid, sent a gentleman’s wife a rude letter,
Attached to the note were crown jewels of a goat, or a calf, whichever was better.
For this insult he got six months in a cot in a cell of the government gaol,
Hard labour exacted a penalty enacted more suiting twenty years without bail.

Released.  Three weeks later the words of his pater rang clear but arrested again.
Young Ned couldn’t see how some truth there could be in the saying “Be fair to all men”.
With no justice observed and no prison deserved he began to see their common course.
For three years he would pay to start on the day he accepted the gift of a horse.

That Ned knew or did not that the horse was quite hot was irrelevant in the court’s mind,
The judge said, “It’s time that the smallest of crime will do to rid us of his kind”.
It seems that this thought pervaded the court for when Ned next crossed over the line,
By riding his steed on a footpath, indeed he paid with more gaol, not a fine.

Subsequent harm beset this proud arm of the Kelly clan Ned represented,
Continuously under cruel scrutiny.  With more than their share circumvented
An invasion occurred when Fitzpatrick, a turd, came warrantless, drunk and afflicted,
To arrest Dan, Ned’s brother, who had stolen another man’s horse so the gossip depicted.

One in a million Dan’s mum, Will Skillion, and a neighbour called Williamson’s son
Were all in the house when Fitzpatrick, the louse, burst in with his red nose and gun.
A fifth one was scared, for no one had dared to burst in on the family before,
Afraid for her life she took a sharp knife and crouched near a big wooden door.

With lust in his eye the turd happened to spy Dan’s elegant young sister Kate,
And in one drunken grope Fitzpatrick, the dope, enacted the vilest fate.
At that Dan got mad and remembering his dad he rushed forward protecting his sister.
A scuffle broke out between Dan and the lout.  A shot rang out causing a blister.

The shot did no harm, but it creased the cop’s arm and provided some proof for a tale,
He’d invent and report to superior sort whose bias was known to prevail.
The records would claim that Ned Kelly took aim at Fitzpatrick and then for no reason
He pulled off one shot, for as likely as not, the boys had declared open season.

With a wound to the louse, Dan had run from the house thinking, “When do we get a fair go?”
“Every time we look up from catastrophe’s cup the police cause disaster to flow.”
He fled to the bush giving patience a push, to find Ned was his driving ambition.
They’d need to stay clear of the law for a year or more in their present position.

At the trial Judge Barry with quick thrust and parry sent Skillion and Williamson’s son
To six years in a cell, then damned them to hell for the things he believed they had done.
Ned’s mum got just three, at her age that would be a difficult sentence to serve.
The trio stood dead straight and proud to heard read each sentence they didn’t deserve.

In truth Ned had been nowhere to be seen, he was four hundred miles we are told,
Away from his home on some prospecting roam in search of alluvial gold.
But Judge Barry unfair said, “If Ned had been there I’d have given him twenty one years.”
There had been no confusions in reaching conclusions that would bring future thinkers to tears.

The rest you have heard many times, it’s absurd how a tale of a man can be spread,
On the gentlest breeze across mountains and seas and repeated until the main thread
Is split into more, satisfying a score of debaters, they’re now two a penny
Who want to lay blame without seeing the game, the one with no rules, no not any.

Ned’s dad taught them well, but the boys couldn’t tell if they’d ever feel free for an hour.
Poor men they would say are made angry each day by bad treatment from those holding power.
In the end it appears that Ned’s friends and his peers claimed that fairness made his reputation.
Mrs Kelly was freed, while police graft and greed was checked through the next generation.

Perhaps that’s the prize Ned’s dad old and wise asked his sons to pursue in their time.
They paid very dearly but the family stayed nearly as close as they could outside crime.
But Ned and his brother could rarely find other ways clear of officials and strife,
So it’s no real surprise that at Ned’s last sunrise he cynically proclaimed, “Such is life”.

Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
TOP

I SAW THE BLUE SOUTHERN CROSS

My years as a child were hard, they were rough,
I was stubborn and often quite naughty.
Unpredictable times were frequently tough,
Being born the last month Eighteen forty.

I saw it all happen before my own eyes,
That disastrous affair in our history.
Not ever before in Australian skies,
Was truth camaflouged by such mystery.

Fourteen years and two days I’d lived in this land,
On the morning the red men rode down,
Hidden safe in a burrow I’d scratched out by hand,
Well above the scene dusty and brown.

Through the day just before and the one before that
The miners had gathered together,
Sharing worries and woe with spirits quite flat,
And this time it wasn’t the weather.

It wasn’t the gold, there was little left now
That was easy to find at the top.
Some remained deep below and if you knew how
You could find it if you didn’t stop.

You had to dig far into rubble and clay,
And shore up your hole as you went.
It was muddy and wet, digging tunnels each day,
And the strongest came home fully spent.

It wasn’t the toil, for profit was won
By the lucky, the good sport, the whiner.
Everyone had a chance if they shifted a ton
Of the dirt that made man into miner.

It wasn’t the food, or the wine, or the girls,
Or the lack of good cheer in the inn.
It was something much worse that deflated the churls.
Unfair treatment it was wore them thin.

Fifty-one was the year that had seen men flood in
From far away lands overseas,
With their shovels and picks and their billys of tin.
Some found gold on their hands and their knees.

Soon the need to establish some order and law
Became clear in the government’s mind,
But so did new ways to tax rich men and poor
Who had come with adventure to find.

A new Gold Commission with the order to rule
Over all that occurred in the field,
Established a power sometimes fair, often cruel
To which miners were obliged then to yield

Commissioner Rede lived at government camp,
He ruled like a feudal dictator.
A team of police helped him enforce his stamp
And some soldiers supported them later.

With gold-braided coats bright red against dark,
Long rifles and bayonets as well,
Their appearance alone caused grown men to remark,
"They look like policemen from hell."

“The Law” they were called, many times I was told,
Overstepped the extent of their calling.
Corruption was rife in their ranks doublefold,
And community life was appaling.

Miner’s licences cost just a shilling a day,
Thirty shillings a month the flat fee.
That price gave a man permission to say
"I’ve a plot twelve-foot square that’s for me."

"It may not look much, but I’m sure if I try
Underground I’ll find riches galore. 
Eighteen hours a day, I’ll never be dry,
But I’ll pay for this right and much more."

Once the licence was bought a miner could toil,
With the paper held fast on his person.
But if challenged without, perhaps lost in the soil,
His condition would certainly worsen.

The law would arrive once a week in a drive
Checking papers and seeking offenders.
I often saw men weeping, barely alive,
After calls by the mean red pretenders.

Fifty-four was the year that Charles Hotham increased
Twice the number of drives multiplied.
His secret decree was severly policed,
And though angered the miners complied.

Two disasters occurred at this time I was told,
Setting tempers alight with good reason.
The first the arrest of a servant of old
Father Smyth.  He’d committed no treason.

Then a second event the aquittal of one,
Who had murdered James Scobie, our friend.
He ran a hotel where the reds drank their rum,
So we burnt the pub down in the end. 

More soldiers arrived to swell the red band,
They’d been sent to teach miners a lesson.
More brutal as those who our anger had fanned,
These new bulls pressed for any confession. 

Late October it was for the air was still damp,
Ten thousand assembled quite freely.
To discuss many grievances throughout their camp
And they didn’t get finished, not nearly.

So they met once again in November this time,
A reform league emerged by the night.
It's task was to help in democracy’s climb,
A fair hearing they knew was their right.

But rights were not on the government’s mind,
Aquiesence reflected their need.
Commissioner Rede suffered none of their kind,
And Charles Hotham called the mens’ motives greed.

At Bakery hill a significant knoll,
Across from the government quarters,
The Blue Southern Cross flew defiant and tall,
Moderation failed to smooth angry waters.

"Lets burn those dammed papers", I heard some men say
And I watched as a few of them did.
"If we all stick together we’ll not have to pay".
I ducked my head down and I hid

Rede’s hunt at the end of November that year
Caught eight without papers no less.
The law had to call reinforcements to clear
Those boys from our large angry mass.

Once again they converged atop Bakery Hill,
This time in a state of full rage.
Mr Lalor who retained some composure still,
Stepped up and assumed centre stage.

With no prior practice in this kind of trial,
He organised men inside hours.
Then they marched, some well armed in a confident file,
To Eureka displaying their powers.

Thursday night Father Smyth made two trips seeking calm
Between troopers and those on the mound.
His bold efforts failed and the reds threatened harm
To the rabble who dared stand their ground.

Friday the first of December that year
The miners prepared their stockade
Using shaft support timbers and all kinds of gear
A feeble low fortress they made.

Through the night all fell quiet then at Saturday's dawn
The miners thought "This is the hour."
But no contact was made by troops with guns drawn
So their readiness started to sour.

Unprepared for a melee with organised foe
I watched as their spirits abated.
Some went home, some got drunk, for they didn’t know
What the troopers had anticipated.

At three Sunday morning I awoke feeling cold.
The thunder of hooves gave me fright.
From my foxhole I saw a disaster unfold,
That had been planned through Saturday night.

Two hundred and seventy-six men fully armed,
Attacked from the north-western flank.
The few rebels left in the fort woke alarmed,
Their faces expressionless, blank.

Shots rang out sharp and wild screams I could hear.
An occasional sabre strike glistened
With blood from a throat cut from ear to ear.
I cried and called "Stop".  No-one listened.

Captain Thomas had led the troopers in red,
It was he who had kept the fort scouted.
He’d planned to attack while the mob lay in bed,
Having done so Eureka was routed.

First driven by anger at having no voice,
In issues concerning their fate,
Twenty-two of their number died not knowing choice,
The prize that they’d sought came too late.

The first legacy of this atrocious affair,
Came quickly through strong indignation,
At over-reacting officials who’d dare
To inflate the true power of their station.

Their brutally cruel strategic destruction
Of life, common purpose and hope,
Shocked a nation to say that "This poor insurrection
Has broadened democracy’s scope."

Those who stayed on to mine got a lasting reward
From the pain of those days in December.
Their complaints were now heard and their rights were ensured
Better times they found hard to remember.

I’m forty-four now.  I’ve returned every year
To re-visit the hole of my youth.
The memories haunt me and leave me in fear
I saw it.  I witnessed a truth.

There is nothing so evil as powerful men
Exercising their will over others.
And there’s little so good in this country as when
They share their strengths, loving like brothers.

Copyright © Graham Pettigrove 2005
TOP

More to come