_ Extract from
Exposing an exposé:
Fact versus fiction in the resurrection of Captain Thunderbolt
By David Andrew Roberts and Carol Baxter
University of New England, Armidale, Australia
Journal of Australian Studies, Vol. 36, No. 1, March 2012, 1-15
University of New England, Armidale, Australia
Journal of Australian Studies, Vol. 36, No. 1, March 2012, 1-15
_
On March 18, 2010, the New South Wales Legislative Council passed
a remarkable motion. Under Standing Order 53, a permanent rule of procedure
enabling the demand for documents from the Governor of NSW in relation to the administration
of justice, the Council requested the release of various itemised records
relating to the death of the bushranger Captain Thunderbolt (Frederick
Wordsworth Ward), who was shot by police at Uralla in the New England on May
25, 1870.1 The National Party’s Richard Colless, who
moved the motion as Deputy Opposition Whip, described it as ‘‘a matter of
history and correcting the record’’. Raised in the New England and claiming to
have grown up with local stories that cast doubt on the official version of
Thunderbolt’s death, Colless said he would ‘‘be surprised if it doesn’t turn up
something rather interesting’’.2 Foreshadowing
the motion some months earlier, the Nationals leader, Andrew Stoner, similarly
thought it ‘‘in the best interests of our democracy and good government to
break through the wall of silence’’.3 Asked for his comment, the Labor Police Minister, Michael Daley,
wryly noted that the Police Integrity Commission might find it difficult to
question the investigating officers.4
The parliamentary standing orders pertaining to the release of state documents are a vital common law means of ensuring transparency and accountability in government. What is remarkable about the motion of March 2010 is not just that this mechanism was applied to a 140-year-old episode from the colonial past, but that it was employed to advance the claims made in a novel. Thunderbolt: Scourge of the Ranges by Gregory James Hamilton and Barry Sinclair, published in 2009, proposes that Frederick Ward was not the man shot at Kentucky Creek outside Uralla in 1870.5 Their thesis is that an overly ambitious constable pursued and shot the wrong man, and that, being aware of the mistake, the colonial authorities engaged in a high level conspiracy to conceal this from the public. More seriously, the authors allege that the conspiracy is enduring, that the NSW government, notably the (now former) Police Minister and Police Commissioner, actively maintained a strict censorship over secret documents that reveal ‘‘the shabbiest official cover-up in our sad, inauspicious history’’.6
Scourge of the Ranges is an historical fiction, one that, to put it kindly, takes full advantage of artistic licence and speculation in regard to its subject. Its claims are at once sensational, serious, and unsourced. It is the latest in a long tradition of Thunderbolt accounts, including histories, novels, films and an unquantifiable corpus of poems and ballads, at least some of which question the established version of the bushranger’s demise in 1870. Scourge of the Ranges, however, is quite singular, not only in some of the alternative particulars it proposes, but also in the extent to which it invests the Thunderbolt legend with a strong and embittered anti-establishment tone. The authors are not merely railing against the cowardice and mediocrity of the colonial authorities who orchestrated the alleged 1870 cover-up, but drawing an explicit connection to supposed state corruption and oppression in our own time.
All this probably seems fine and fitting for a novel that blatantly taps into radical nationalist mythologies surrounding the colonial bushranger, notwithstanding recent scholarship which allows a more sober and circumspect view of these phenomena.7 Captain Thunderbolt has long enjoyed a celebrity status as a daring and adventurous anti-authoritarian figure, although, as with Australia’s most iconic bushranger, Ned Kelly, opinions on his character and importance were divided at the time, and may still vary according to social background, education and political persuasion.8 Locally at least, the attachment to the Thunderbolt legend is strong, yet his story has become so intrinsically mired in layers of myth and legend that historians find it difficult to separate fact from fiction.9 The Thunderbolt legend is hardly dependent on notions of state conspiracy or doubts surrounding his identity and fatal capture. But in Scourge of the Ranges these are brought to the fore, informed by the political radicalism and passionate conviction of the authors, one of whom claims descent from the Ward family.
Scholars and enthusiasts of traditional culture and popular literature have long found especial nourishment in the rich and remarkable traditions of the New England, and some may mark Scourge of the Ranges as another vigorous example of the fluidity and pliability of Australian regional folk-myths. However, this novel purports to be more than a work of folklore and fiction. It claims to be a serious piece of historical revisionism, factually accurate and grounded in scrupulous research. ‘‘Things like conversations have obviously been created’’, one of the authors told the local New England press, ‘‘but all the events are based on facts’’.10 It is, then, a fictionalised historical exposé of an alleged political cover-up – a recipe for confusion, or something worse.
It is not our primary intention to dissect and argue the historical merits of the alternative account of Thunderbolt’s demise as presented in Scourge of the Ranges. There are enough internal inconsistencies in the plot itself to warrant scepticism, without requiring comment on its dismal relationship to historical evidence. The conspiracy theory occupies only the last quarter of the novel, but the preceding 300 pages are similarly characterised by interpretive flaws and false impressions. Indeed nearly all of the information provided by the authors about the pivotal events of Frederick Ward’s life – his birth, youth, entry into crime, his incarceration on Cockatoo Island and ticket-of-leave stint at Mudgee, his marriage, re-conviction, escape from Cockatoo Island, and his bushranging career – bears astonishingly little relation to actual events.
Nor do we propose to debate the merits of historical fiction as a means of provoking new and insightful imaginings of the past. To be clear, the authors of Scourge of the Ranges claim to be using the techniques of fiction to reconstruct known and provable events, rather than entirely inventing a story per se. Indeed, their claims to factuality and accuracy are strident, even aggressive. It is a big call to make, given the radical and serious nature of what their account proposes, and given that their medium of choice involves dramatised reconstruction, invented dialogue, and no source referencing. At least Peter Carey, when pressed about the artistic liberties taken in his True History of the Kelly Gang, conceded that ‘‘I made it all up!’’11
Our main concern here is with the claim that historical records have been censored in the service of an ongoing state and police conspiracy. These allegations are made in the book itself, through a combination of fictional narrative and booming, first-person authorial intrusions, and they have been elaborated on in the press. But the endorsement of a parliamentary motion evoking Standing Order 53 invests them with a degree of seriousness and urgency that warrants a reasoned response, particularly as far as they reflect on the nature and integrity of governance and state record keeping in NSW. It is one thing, and not at all unprecedented, for historical literature to sensationalise itself on the basis of newly discovered ‘‘facts’’, real or imagined. The history of Thunderbolt histories alone provides ample evidence of that. But it is quite another for the powers of the Legislative Council to be used to sanction and validate the claims of conspiracy and censorship raised in a novel, especially when, as we argue below, these particular claims appear embarrassingly baseless.
The parliamentary standing orders pertaining to the release of state documents are a vital common law means of ensuring transparency and accountability in government. What is remarkable about the motion of March 2010 is not just that this mechanism was applied to a 140-year-old episode from the colonial past, but that it was employed to advance the claims made in a novel. Thunderbolt: Scourge of the Ranges by Gregory James Hamilton and Barry Sinclair, published in 2009, proposes that Frederick Ward was not the man shot at Kentucky Creek outside Uralla in 1870.5 Their thesis is that an overly ambitious constable pursued and shot the wrong man, and that, being aware of the mistake, the colonial authorities engaged in a high level conspiracy to conceal this from the public. More seriously, the authors allege that the conspiracy is enduring, that the NSW government, notably the (now former) Police Minister and Police Commissioner, actively maintained a strict censorship over secret documents that reveal ‘‘the shabbiest official cover-up in our sad, inauspicious history’’.6
Scourge of the Ranges is an historical fiction, one that, to put it kindly, takes full advantage of artistic licence and speculation in regard to its subject. Its claims are at once sensational, serious, and unsourced. It is the latest in a long tradition of Thunderbolt accounts, including histories, novels, films and an unquantifiable corpus of poems and ballads, at least some of which question the established version of the bushranger’s demise in 1870. Scourge of the Ranges, however, is quite singular, not only in some of the alternative particulars it proposes, but also in the extent to which it invests the Thunderbolt legend with a strong and embittered anti-establishment tone. The authors are not merely railing against the cowardice and mediocrity of the colonial authorities who orchestrated the alleged 1870 cover-up, but drawing an explicit connection to supposed state corruption and oppression in our own time.
All this probably seems fine and fitting for a novel that blatantly taps into radical nationalist mythologies surrounding the colonial bushranger, notwithstanding recent scholarship which allows a more sober and circumspect view of these phenomena.7 Captain Thunderbolt has long enjoyed a celebrity status as a daring and adventurous anti-authoritarian figure, although, as with Australia’s most iconic bushranger, Ned Kelly, opinions on his character and importance were divided at the time, and may still vary according to social background, education and political persuasion.8 Locally at least, the attachment to the Thunderbolt legend is strong, yet his story has become so intrinsically mired in layers of myth and legend that historians find it difficult to separate fact from fiction.9 The Thunderbolt legend is hardly dependent on notions of state conspiracy or doubts surrounding his identity and fatal capture. But in Scourge of the Ranges these are brought to the fore, informed by the political radicalism and passionate conviction of the authors, one of whom claims descent from the Ward family.
Scholars and enthusiasts of traditional culture and popular literature have long found especial nourishment in the rich and remarkable traditions of the New England, and some may mark Scourge of the Ranges as another vigorous example of the fluidity and pliability of Australian regional folk-myths. However, this novel purports to be more than a work of folklore and fiction. It claims to be a serious piece of historical revisionism, factually accurate and grounded in scrupulous research. ‘‘Things like conversations have obviously been created’’, one of the authors told the local New England press, ‘‘but all the events are based on facts’’.10 It is, then, a fictionalised historical exposé of an alleged political cover-up – a recipe for confusion, or something worse.
It is not our primary intention to dissect and argue the historical merits of the alternative account of Thunderbolt’s demise as presented in Scourge of the Ranges. There are enough internal inconsistencies in the plot itself to warrant scepticism, without requiring comment on its dismal relationship to historical evidence. The conspiracy theory occupies only the last quarter of the novel, but the preceding 300 pages are similarly characterised by interpretive flaws and false impressions. Indeed nearly all of the information provided by the authors about the pivotal events of Frederick Ward’s life – his birth, youth, entry into crime, his incarceration on Cockatoo Island and ticket-of-leave stint at Mudgee, his marriage, re-conviction, escape from Cockatoo Island, and his bushranging career – bears astonishingly little relation to actual events.
Nor do we propose to debate the merits of historical fiction as a means of provoking new and insightful imaginings of the past. To be clear, the authors of Scourge of the Ranges claim to be using the techniques of fiction to reconstruct known and provable events, rather than entirely inventing a story per se. Indeed, their claims to factuality and accuracy are strident, even aggressive. It is a big call to make, given the radical and serious nature of what their account proposes, and given that their medium of choice involves dramatised reconstruction, invented dialogue, and no source referencing. At least Peter Carey, when pressed about the artistic liberties taken in his True History of the Kelly Gang, conceded that ‘‘I made it all up!’’11
Our main concern here is with the claim that historical records have been censored in the service of an ongoing state and police conspiracy. These allegations are made in the book itself, through a combination of fictional narrative and booming, first-person authorial intrusions, and they have been elaborated on in the press. But the endorsement of a parliamentary motion evoking Standing Order 53 invests them with a degree of seriousness and urgency that warrants a reasoned response, particularly as far as they reflect on the nature and integrity of governance and state record keeping in NSW. It is one thing, and not at all unprecedented, for historical literature to sensationalise itself on the basis of newly discovered ‘‘facts’’, real or imagined. The history of Thunderbolt histories alone provides ample evidence of that. But it is quite another for the powers of the Legislative Council to be used to sanction and validate the claims of conspiracy and censorship raised in a novel, especially when, as we argue below, these particular claims appear embarrassingly baseless.
_The above paragraphs served as the introductory section of Exposing an exposé. The full article can be accessed (pay-per-view) at: http://www.tandfonline.com/doi/abs/10.1080/14443058.2011.633215