The Last of the Bushrangers: An Account of the Capture of the Kelly Gang

In Short

This memoir offers a firsthand look at the final, desperate years of the bushranging era in colonial Australia. As a senior police officer, the author recounts the grueling efforts to track down Ned Kelly and his gang, a mission marked by intense manhunts, dangerous mountain patrols, and the eventual bloody climax at Glenrowan. More than a police procedural, the work serves as a sobering record of the logistical and moral costs involved in state-sponsored law enforcement, detailing the complex social networks that allowed outlaws to thrive in the rugged Victorian wilderness.

The Story

The narrative begins with the author’s early experiences in the Victorian police force, where he cuts his teeth on gold-escort duty and the pursuit of earlier, less legendary criminals. These formative years establish a world of physical hardship—swimming flooded rivers, enduring isolation, and navigating the vast, unforgiving Australian bush. When the Kelly gang emerges, the author is thrust into the center of a protracted conflict that tests the limits of colonial authority.

The gang’s rise is marked by audacity. They move through the country with a local intelligence that dwarfs the police response, systematically "sticking up" stations, robbing banks in Euroa and Jerilderie, and taunting the authorities by cutting telegraph lines. The author describes the constant frustration of these early encounters, where the outlaws seem to vanish into the landscape, shielded by a web of sympathetic locals and adept "bush telegraphs."

The heart of the campaign centers on the author’s recruitment of Aaron Sherritt, a man living on the knife-edge between the gang and the law. Sherritt’s role as an informant provides the only consistent thread of intelligence, though his precarious position and eventual betrayal lead to his brutal execution by his former comrades. This turning point shifts the conflict from a game of cat-and-mouse to an all-out effort to force the gang into the open.

The climax at Glenrowan is a chaotic, desperate affair. After receiving intelligence of the gang’s movements, the police surround a local hotel where the outlaws have gathered. The ensuing firefight is sudden and violent, involving armor, civilian hostages, and high-stakes railway sabotage. The author recounts the final stand, detailing the death of Joe Byrne and the eventual capture of Ned Kelly. The narrative does not shy away from the brutality of the era—the mutilation of bodies, the intense fear of the hostage-takers, and the heavy toll on the police themselves.

In the aftermath, the author reflects on the staggering financial and human cost of the operation. He argues that the heavy expenditure was a necessary investment to establish the reach of the law. By the time the final gang member is dealt with, the author concludes that the era of the romanticized bushranger has been effectively extinguished, replaced by a firm state commitment to order. The story closes not with a celebration of triumph, but with an acknowledgement of the heavy price paid for the restoration of peace.

How It Unfolds

The apprenticeship of the law. The author chronicles his early career in the gold fields, establishing the grueling physical demands of policing a frontier where maps were scarce and the environment was an active combatant.

The rising tide of the gang. The narrative shifts to the emergence of the Kellys, detailing the strategic bank robberies and the frustrating failure of the initial police search parties to corner them in the ranges.

The informant’s gamble. The author details his tense, long-term alliance with Aaron Sherritt, illustrating the moral compromises and deep-cover work required to penetrate the gang’s support network.

The final confrontation. The account climaxes at the Glenrowan hotel, where police and outlaws engage in a desperate siege that ultimately results in the gang’s destruction and the end of a chaotic chapter in Australian history.

The People

Francis Augustus Hare serves as the steady, pragmatic anchor of the narrative. As a Superintendent of Police, he is driven by a professional commitment to order, though he is often forced to rely on unconventional, sometimes ethically gray, tactics to achieve his goals. He remains focused on the logistics of the hunt, distancing himself from the myth-making that surrounded the outlaws.

Ned Kelly emerges as a figure of calculated cruelty and tactical cunning. Far from a folk hero, he is depicted here as a man who weaponizes the landscape and terrorizes the local populace to maintain his grip on power. His willingness to use extreme violence—such as the killing of Kennedy—sets the stakes for the entire memoir.

Aaron Sherritt is the most complex figure in the text. A "bush telegraph" turned police informant, he operates in the shadows, constantly maneuvering between his ties to the gang and his promise of safety from the author. His life is a high-stakes gamble that ultimately costs him everything, highlighting the human cost of the police reliance on unreliable insiders.

The Sympathizers are not a single character, but a collective force. They act as the eyes and ears of the gang, creating a hostile environment for the police and demonstrating the deep, often invisible, support structures that allowed the Kelly gang to persist long after they should have been captured.

In Its Own Voice

"Some of the streams were very rapid, and when flooded were most dangerous to cross."

The author reflects on the environmental challenges of his early police duty, where the landscape itself was as difficult to navigate as the criminals he pursued.

"The outlaws at once went into an adjoining room and began to put on their armour, but no one knew what they were doing."

The author describes the tense moment during the Glenrowan siege when the gang revealed the improvised steel plating that would become their final, desperate defense.

What It's Really About

At its core, the book is a study of the friction between lawless independence and the encroaching reach of the state. The author argues that the survival of the bushrangers was not merely a matter of criminal skill, but a failure of communication and infrastructure. By systematically destroying the telegraph lines and utilizing the local knowledge of the "bush telegraphs," the gang effectively localized the conflict, keeping the state at arm’s length. The author posits that the eventual victory of the police was a victory of technology and centralized organization over the traditional, localized power of the frontier. It is an argument for the necessity of a modern police force, suggesting that in a changing world, the romanticized, independent outlaw had become an obsolete, if dangerous, relic.

Why Read It Today

Readers interested in the raw, unvarnished history of the Australian frontier will find much to admire here. The narrative feels immediate and deeply rooted in the physical experience of the bush—one can almost feel the cold mountain air and the urgency of a midnight telegraph. The author does not lean into the later mythologizing of the Kelly gang; instead, he presents them as a tangible, lethal threat, which makes the stakes of the hunt feel palpably real.

The prose is straightforward, administrative, and occasionally dry, reflecting the author’s background as a police officer rather than a novelist. This lack of polish is precisely why it remains valuable; it serves as a primary account of how the police actually operated, from the mundane, such as the logistics of food rations and horse care, to the extraordinary, such as the final siege at Glenrowan. Readers should be prepared for the period-specific attitudes and the often-grim, blunt descriptions of violence, which the author recounts with the detachment of a man who saw the cost of his duty firsthand. It is a dense, focused record that rewards those who want to see the reality behind the legend, offering a clear-eyed perspective on the end of a lawless era.