I were 26 yr. old and in a party of ten constables and sergeants when I first killed a man. It were not my fault. They shouldn’t of been helping the effin bastards like they done. I done plenty of killing before. Lame horses and sheep and cattle and possums for eating but this were different.
We’d been chasing the Kelly gang with two black trackers. They were like hawks on them tracks pocking sniffing stabbing and pointing we were turned around this direction and that then off again over rocky outcrops and thick scrub and inhospitable land with no leases or squatters. Only outlaws and poor folk would venture to ride over and settle those hard valley ranges.
We looked to camp at the bottom of a steep rocky hill after a long and hard four-day ride. The last two were harder as the blacks picked up something fresh out the dirt and we flew in the blazing sun. The horses needed resting and the sun were almost gone bringing the monotonous drone of them cicadas I could hardly think such was the racket. I settled and watered my horse then was ordered off to grab kindling for the fire. Only weak streaks of light cut by the trees was left to guide me so I hurried. Once the fire was up I had a swig of whisky and we lamented our rotten luck.
We had almost nabbed the bastards five days prior on the banks of the swollen Murray. The rain dumped for days and slowed them but our blacks worked and we caught them dwindling by the river confused on where to enter the torrent. We were soaked through but Fitzpatrick managed to get a shot off with a damp weapon he clear missed but drove one of their party into the water. I thought him a goner but his horse found shallow depth and stood firm the water drove mightily up the horse’s flanks and over the rider. Fitzpatrick were a good man and the first victim of the gang’s violence. Ned Kelly had shot him clean through the hand for doing nothing but asking Kelly’s mother for her daughter’s hand in marriage. He came out lucky compared to the good men who gave their lives at Stringybark creek murdered for trying to bring them bastards in peacefully. We coppers had no peace left in us and they were to hang once we got them and they bloody well knew it.
We’d harried closer pushing the rest of them into the water. They followed the first riders’ path. Once we got to the bank they were half way across the dangerous stretch and our gear was so wet through no one else managed a shot. I was no coward and approached the water’s edge but my horse wouldn’t enter and after a slip on the bank Fitzpatrick called me back and I was sore that he did. The worst of it were the cheers and singing coming from the other side of the bank. We had lost them.
The fire whistled and popped and I drank as much whisky as I could before it were snatched off me. Everyone was thirsty after the days ride. I got up to check my horse and take a piss that’s when I saw them in the moonlight on the edge of camp. Those black bastards were talking to two women. I crept closer to make sure there were nothing untoward. I neared them and witnessed an ungodly thing. Two men dressed in woman’s clothing them dresses so tight over there frames they were ready to burst. One of them looked like the drawing going around from the paper of Ned Kelly’s brother Dan. I pulled my pistol and approached but being outnumbered as I were I thought it wise to hang back and see what were to transpire. I were no coward it were smart not to run into a fight outnumbered. The blacks were attentive and I saw them nod and low and behold Dan Kelly put a hand out and one of them black bastards shook it in return. The two men dressed as women ran up the rocky slope and I stood very confused and trying to place where they went but the light was gone and they vanished into the dark. I went back to the campsite and told Fitzpatrick what transpired. He were right mad with the blacks and we brought them to the centre of camp bound their hands behind them and sat them down light were dancing over there black faces from the fire. I confronted them with what I saw. I were right angry at their silence their eyes were wide and searching for God only knows what. I could see fear in them eyes and rightly so. Not saying nothing as they were they were accusing me of being a liar. The other men started to doubt me and I took the bottle Fitzpatrick was holding took a swig and then doused the first black over the head with the precious liquor. My associates didn’t take kindly to me doing this. I asked them silent blacks again over the droning cicadas to tell us what had transpired and again the blacks sat stone faced wide eyed and dumb. I were angry as the pits of hell and kicked the fire in their direction I may have not intended it but and ember caught and the black lit up his face all aflame. He stared screaming and howling such a sound I never heard even the cicadas went silent. His mate had got up to run so I had no choice but to pull my pistol and drop him the shot rang out over the hills. My heart was beating very fast now and I saw red across my eyes. The black still screamed mightily and without any notion of what I was doing I pulled the trigger and dropped him as well. It went real quiet for a time before Fitzpatrick cussed at Jesus we needed those blacks to track the Kelly’s he said. That night I drank my fair share and saw them black eyes staring at me in my sleep. The next morning we dumped the bodies behind a rock ledge and made our way back to Melbourne.
Special thanks to Australian writer, Peter Carey whose novel True History of the Kelly Gang inspired this story.
Contributor Notes
Graham Akhurst is an Aboriginal writer hailing from the Kokomini of Northern Queensland. He has been published widely in Australia and America for poetry, short fiction, and creative non-fiction. His debut novel Borderland will be released in July 2021 with Hachette Australia. Graham is the recipient of the W.G. Walker Fulbright Scholar, the Nomad Two Worlds Foundation Indigenous Arts Scholarship with the American Australian Association, and an Australia Council of the Arts Professional Development award to complete an MFA in fiction at Hunter College, CUNY. He has an Honours degree in creative writing and an Mphil in creative writing from the University of Queensland where he was also an Associate Lecturer in Indigenous Studies. He currently lives and studies in New York.
