In my novel Kerosene Creek, set in the 1880s Southern Highlands, 18-year-old Jindy Kelly appears on the steps of a convent starving, frostbitten and suffering from amnesia. Her only possession is a book of handwritten stories. This is one of them, written when she was 10.
On Saint Patrick’s Day, the entire village assembles in the village hall for Irish dancing and patriotic speeches. Colm stays over at our house, and we play whist with Ma while Da and Constable Duff polish off a bottle of home-brewed Poitín on the veranda. Colm and I are woken up about midnight when our grown-up fathers set fire to the bush along the creek. Da says Saint Patrick told him in a dream to drive the snakes out of the valley.
When the sun comes up, Constable Duff is sprawled out on the veranda snoring his head off, his shirt undone, one of his boots in the garden, his pistol and handcuffs slung over a chair. Da seems to be immune to the effects of strong liquor, and he has already milked the cow, slaked his terrible thirst with a billy of black tea, and is blowing life into the furnace in his workshop. I am pumping water from the well into the kettle when a group of riders ford the creek. Colm tries to rouse his father, but the constable is out for the count. I run into the forge and tell Da that five men on horseback are coming, and one of their horses is lame.
A man with orange side-whiskers, mounted on a roan filly, politely enquires whether the blacksmith would be kind enough to drop everything and replace the shoe on his horse’s left foreleg.
“My friends and I are eager to reach Sutton Forest by evening,” he says quietly.
Da notices that the man has a pistol in his waistband and a shotgun in a holster on the horse. The man’s companions rouse Constable Duff from his whisky stupor, confiscate his pistol, and secure him to the veranda post with his own handcuffs. Da leads the filly into the smithy. He tells Colm to help him pump the bellows, and me to run into the kitchen and see what I can do to help my mother. May never sees evil in anyone, and she makes a kettle of tea and slices and butters the loaf of bread she has baked that morning, and we carry the refreshments to the men, who have formed a ring around the smithy. Constable Duff, red-eyed and green-faced, scowls fiercely from the veranda post.
Orange Whiskers beckons me over.
“Jindy, is it? You look like a strong girl. Will you do something for me? Go into where your daddy is shoeing my horse and bring out my saddlebag. It’ll be heavy, so ask your brother to help.”
We find the saddle lying across a sawhorse and unbuckle the brown leather bag. The weight is too much for one of us, so Colm and I struggle to carry it together back to where the men are drinking their tea. Just as we reach the top step, Colm trips on a strap, and the bag drops with a thump. A bright red cloth bundle falls out and rolls across the veranda.
“Careful! That’s a present for a young lady I know. I’m sure you wouldn’t like your wedding dress dragged across the floor, would you, Jindy?”
“No, sir, sorry, sir,” I mumble and push the heavy red parcel back into the bag. Colm hauls it across to Mr Orange Whiskers.
“Now, I aim to reward you youngsters for your help. You first, Jindy—what would you rather have, that beautiful dress or a gold sovereign?”
“Can I have what’s wrapped up in the dress as well?” I ask.
The man grins at Ma. “You’ve got a smart one here, Missus! What do you think is in here, Jindy?”
“Is it a doll?”
The bushrangers all laugh and slap their thighs, but Ma reaches out and plucks the coin from the man’s hand.
“She’ll choose the sovereign, thank you very much.”
Colm holds his hand out and is rewarded with another sovereign.
When Da leads the horse out of the forge, Orange Whiskers winks at us and holds a finger to his lips. The gang rides off to the north, taking the handcuff key and Constable Duff’s horse and pistol with them.
© Ian Hart, 2026
Image credit: From the film ‘The Legend of Ben Hall.’
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