The Sun, Sunday, September 3 1911.
THE
MAN WHO SHOT NED KELLY.
STILL HAS THE BLOOD-STAINED CARTRIDGE. -BAG.
To Sergeant-Steele belongs the distinction of having brought down the chief of the
notorious outlaws during the night fighting at Glenrowan. Steele had been one of the
most implacable of the gang's pursuers and one of the cleverest also. And they would
have been pleased enough, no doubt, to have accounted for him. But he escaped
without a hurt throughout the long hunt
Sergeant-Steele is living in retirement, with his grown-up family, at Wangaratta.
His house, a commodious, well-shaded one, is at once pointed out to the visitor. It is
on the top of the river bank. Below, the King and Ovens Rivers merge into one sluggish
stream. Sergeant Steele occupies his leisure a good deal in farming. He is as keen as ever
on horses he always did love a good horse and be finds agriculture an agreeable and profitable
pastime.
It was in his pleasant home at Wangaratta that the representative of the "Sun" saw the man
who shot the outlaw chief. Very well, indeed, was the doughty sergeant looking, carrying his
years well even jauntily. After all, a hard life fits a man for the enjoyment of a restful autumn.
and the sergeant is one who can appreciate the fact. His is a hardy family. Both his daughters
sleep out of doors in all weathers. And neither has ever known what a cold means.
Of course, the pursuit and capture of the outlaws by Sergeant-Steele in all his long service in
the force. But he speaks of his exploits in very matter-of-fact vein.
He remembered perfectly the stirring events of that memorable night at Glenrowan especially
the grand finale in which he played so large a part. - But be was not disposed to discuss it.
"It has all been told so often," he said.
But, all the same I may as well say that my success was owing to my using a, shot-gun instead
of a rifle or pistol. It was no use trying to reach a vulnerable place in that man's armor (sic) with
a bullet. Shot was the stuff for that job-good, big-shot. And that's what I got him with at last.
"No, strange to say, I haven't any relics of the battle - none, that is, except one. Let's see-where
is it? Ah! I know." And diving into a room at the rear be reappeared with a dark-looking object
that presently turned out to be a leather bag, with a strap to carry it across the shoulders.
The bag was of crescent shape, and the leather was stout.
On the front flap was a large, dark stain.
'"That," said the sergeant, "is Ned Kelly's cartridge bag. That is the one he was wearing at
Glenrowan.
I took it off him with the other things, when be fell. And that stain is his blood: He was wounded
in several places, and bled a good deal. Yes it’s a grim relic not at all pretty. Let's -put it away."
And he did.
when the trouble started. I was here. But it was clear, fine night, and we heard the noise of the
firing when the police sent in the first volley distinctly. We knew what it was. And we didn't
wait long. We were there in time for the finish.
We met Constable Bracken on the way. He was galloping along the railway line.
“And of the other men who took leading parts in the affair – what of them, sergeant?”
“Well Mr. Hare was shot in the hand is dead. Constable Bracken, who so pluckily escaped
from the Glenrowan Inn and told us what was doing there, committed suicide some time ago.
Mr.Sadleir is living at Elsternwick, I think. Sergeant Whelan I last heard of was living in
Melville-street Hawthorn. I don't know about the others, but I believe a good number must
still be on this side of the divide.
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THE MAN WHO STOPPED THE SPECIAL TRAIN.
MR. CURNOW LIVING UNDER AN ASSUMED NAME.
It is a matter of history that the bush-rangers, rendered desperate by
the consciousness of impending retribution, and with appetites for the
slaughter of those whom they had made their enemies to the death,
whetted by their sharp and decisive defeat of the police in the Wombat-
Ranges, determined to annihilate the special force of police sent to
encounter them at Glenrowan. Their arrangements for the wrecking of the
special-train were nothing short of terrible in their completeness.
Nothing could have saved the train from an awful disaster had it been
permitted to reach the embankment just beyond Glenrowan, at which the
outlaws had had the rails torn up. The courage and self-devotion of one
man alone prevented that calamity. Mr. Curnow, the school-master, knew of
the outlaws' dreadful intentions. Taking his life in his hands he left
the inn in which he and the other people were prisoners to frustrate
them. He was successful in stopping the train, and in preventing the
contemplated massacre, and was, beyond question, by that act
responsible in a very great measure for the bringing of the bushrangers'
long and sensational career to a close.
After the destruction of the gang Mr. Curnow disappeared. He received a
liberal share of the reward offered by two Governments for the
apprehension of the outlaws. But thenceforward he vanished from human
ken. It is presumed-has been presumed for years-that this plucky
school teacher is dead. That belief is only partially correct. As Mr.
Curnow he has certainly ceased to exist. But the man himself is still
alive-or was very recently. Living under another name, old, but still
active, Mr. Curnow was until lately teaching a small school in the
wilderness of Gippsland. Tall, grave of feature, his long beard now
almost white, the man who saved the special train is a very prominent
figure in the small community in which he has chosen to immure himself.
His secret is not known. When on rare occasions he makes a visit to the
principal town in the district on some business of compulsion, he is
pointed out occasionally by the few who know him as the hero of the
Glenrowan fight-the man who risked his life to save the lives of his
fellow-men. But his new home is a long way removed from the scene of
his memorable exploit. And there is no likelihood of the fact of his
identity becoming known involving him in any of the trouble, which,
rightly or wrongly, he anticipated as the result of what he did on that
fateful night. There are none in that region who have any sympathy with
the notorious outlaws or their fate. To the people there the whole story
of the gang and its exploits and destruction is a memory only. Those who
know the old school teacher honor (sic) him for his great exploit-but they
respect his wishes by seldom or never alluding to it. And so, in the
placid serenity of his autumn of life Mr. Curnow goes on with the work
that he has always followed-the instruction of the young. And a wise
and capable instructor he has proved himself.
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THE KELLY HOMESTEAD TO-DAY.
LOOPHOLES CAREFULLY PRESERVED.
A DOOR OF HISTORIC RECORDS.
The old Kelly homestead is just the same to-day as it was when the gang were
terrorising the whole country. It was too substantially built to fall to pieces easily. The
walls and partitions are thick slabs. The floors are rough hardwood boards. The present
proprietor, who is a farmer, doing pretty well, has added a new iron roof to the old
building, but has not changed it in any other respect. He uses the place as a dwelling
for his family. There are four apartments in it. he has built another cottage at
the rear of the old building has considerably improved the property in other ways.
We found the new tenant, an obliging man, very willing to do the honors (sic) of his home.
He displayed with something like proprietary pride the loop-holes in the partition walls.
Through these, he said, he (sic) Kellys, when at home during the period of their outlawry-
which was more often than the police imagined --- could watch anyone in the adjoining
apartment and shoot them if they so desired, without the risk of a shot in return.
And there was not much chance of any-one getting here without them knowing it.
continued the guide. "See those holes in the doors!”
In the back door, about half-way down, was a slit about ? in wide. Looking through this
from within, when the door was closed, the eye had a clear view of the whole of the country
stretching away to the rear of the homestead, for miles. It would have been impossible for
anyone to have approached the place on that side without being seen by a watcher within.
The door at the other- side was similarly provided with a “lookout.”
it carefully.”
bear a mark of same kind. Initials of members of the gang, or of their friends and relatives, cut,
scratched, or stained in the wood, were all over it; rude drawings the work of idle moments, were
there in plenty.
The Initials of all the Kelly girls were prominent. And there were many other initials that, could not
easily be “placed,” so to speak, and others that were almost obliterated by time and weather.
Altogether the old door was a queer historic record - with some chronological value, as well, because
many of the scratches and cuts had dates accompanying them.
PLAYING AT OUTLAWS.
It was not difficult to throw the mind back 31 years or so, and imagine this old slab hut the stronghold
of the bushrangers. Here, many a time, they had met to learn news of the movements of the police.
Here, often enough, they had planned and arranged all manner of depredations on neighboring
properties and the disposal of the proceeds.
We step back warily, and endeavor to enjoy the sensation of feeling like a police trooper stalking
the place. We look carefully at the slot in the door, half expecting to see an eye glinting wickedly behind
it, and the muzzle of a rifle protruded through the larger aperture below. And we retreat in haste and
great disorder several feet – to the back fence, in fact on realizing that there actually is a pair of keen
eyes watching through that well-worn loophole, and that something much resembling the muzzle end
of a lethal weapon is projecting from the shot-hole. For a moment this apparition was a little too realistic.
The farmer found it quite an enjoyable joke, and laughed long and heartily about it. And as fresh phases
of it occurred to him he would break out into more ??????? of hilarity. It was a good while before he got
his good humored face straight enough to explain. Playing at Kelly's of course, the game of games in this
district. And this farmer's children had enviable and unique facilities for doing the thing realistically.
They had all the original properties so to speak, and they took advantage of them. Aaron Sherritt was
usually slain in the stable at the end of the yard. But the troopers were frequently massacred in hola-
causts before the slotted door of the old stronghold. No doubt those youngsters had a gallows rigged
somewhere around the place.
The temptation to regard a stranger as a hostile trooper had been too much for one youthful Australian
and we had just drawn a bead on the intruder's liver with the whip-handle that did him for a gun, when the
ambush was perceived and the visitor backed out of the range.
The farmer had no objection whatever to a photo of the place being taken. So while the camera was
being adjusted he fetched some children up to the front. It took a few seconds, but when the operator
looked up from the viewfinder he was met with the spectacle of the son and heir of the family, a
desperate villain about eight summers, revelling (sic) a huge Enfield revolver against a small sister,
who was, for the moment, a superintendent of police. It was no toy of a gun either, but a self acting
weapon of modern make and deadly appearance.
The most striking feature about this impromptu tableau was the astonishing celerity with which the
pistol made its appearance.
The farmer explained that he did not believe in firearms much, but he generally kept some handy --
everyone in that part of the country did.
Many years, it appears, must roll on before the Kelly country gets free of its deeply permeating
taint of crime and lawlessness and the summary jurisdiction of the sudden and deadly firearm.
We might have been in Texas or Kentucky.