True History of the Kelly Gang

True History of the Kelly Gang Read Online Free PDF Page A

Book: True History of the Kelly Gang Read Online Free PDF
Author: Peter Carey
Tags: Fiction, Literary
she ministered to me with soap and water all the time berating me and saying I were a very bad boy and she was angry with me etc. etc. but this were for the benefit of the other children who was listening at the door and watching through the chinks between the logs. My ma cleaned me so very gentle with the washer I knew she must be pleased.
    Of course Annie could be relied upon to tell my father what I had done before he even got the saddle off his horse. He had been delivering butter to people with English names a job that always put him out of temper so when Annie showed him the dead beast he come inside to give me a hiding with his belt a mark on my leg I carry to this day. When it were dark he took a lantern down by the creek and skinned and butchered my beast and carried the 4 quarters back across the paddock one at a time and then burned the head and hung the hide and cut out the MM brand so none could accuse us of stealing Murray’s heifer. He salted down what meat would fit into a barrel and the rest he ordered my mother to cook at once.
    All through this Annie would not speak to me even Maggie kept her distance but very late that night we had a mighty feast of beef and I noticed it were not just my excited brothers who ate their fill.
    2 days later I were sent home from school at lunch time to collect my homework which I had forgot again I found a strange bay mare tethered beneath our peppercorn tree it had VR embroidered on the saddlecloth in silver Victoria Regina. I knew it were the police. I entered the hut and my father were sitting in his usual chair watching a lanky fair haired Constable spreading out the heifer’s hide across our table.
    Come on John said Constable Doxcy putting his hand right through the hole where the brand had been. John we know whats missing here.
    As you can see said my father I slaughtered a cow and made a greenhide whip.
    Ah you made a whip.
    Correct my father said but did not protest or struggle against the accusation.
    So be a good fellow will you John and bring me the whip.
    My father did not say nothing he did not move he stared at the Constable with puffy eyes.
    Perhaps you never made a whip at all.
    O I must of lost it.
    Must of lost it.
    I’ll bring it up to you soon as I find it.
    More likely it were the brand John. Did you cut out Mr Murray’s brand?
    No I made a whip.
    Did you ever hear of Act 7 and Act 8 George IV No 29?
    I don’t know.
    It is a law John it says that if you duff another fellow’s heifer then you’re going to go to adjectival gaol and you can bring me any adjectival whip you like but unless it can fill this hole exactly John you’re going in the adjectival lockup. We don’t like Irish thieves in Avenel.
    I can’t bear prison my father spoke as plainly as a man who don’t like Brussels sprouts.
    Well thats a shame said Doxcy as he moved towards him.
    I done it I said I thrust myself forward.
    I put my hand on Doxcy’s hard black shoulder belt and he rested his hand upon my arm.
    You’re a good boy Jim said he.
    I’m Ned I done it.
    The policeman asked my father Is this so?
    But my father would say nothing he were like some creature drugged by spiders.
    I turned back to Doxcy demanding he arrest me and he laughed ruffling my hair and smiling a foolish sentimental smile.
    Pack up your things John he said to my father you can bring a blanket and a pannikin and spoon.
    I done it I said the brand were MM I done it with the carving knife.
    Shutup my father says his eyes now alive and angry. Shut your gob go back to school.
    Thus were Father taken from me handcuffed to the stirrup iron of Doxcy’s mare.
    In the days before our father were imprisoned we Kelly children would walk to school along the creek but now we took a new path through the police paddock where the lockup stood. Apart from this stockade the paddock had no feature other than a dreary mound of clay which marked the grave of Doxcy’s mare. Even this miserable sight my father were denied
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