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Young John Jones, the son of the publican of the Glenrowan Inn died from a wound
sustained during the siege.
The headstone of John Jones. (Photo D. White)
 John Jones was only 13 years when the Kellys came to the Glenrowan Inn
run by his mother Mrs. Ann Jones. He played the concertina to
entertain the prisoners at the Inn and he also sang two songs, one of
which was The Wild Colonial Boy. Once the police arrived and began
firing into the building, John was hit near the hip and suffered
greatly before being taken out of the Inn by another prisoner, Neil
McHugh, nearly 9 hours later. He was taken by train to the Wangaratta
Hospital where he died just after midnight.
Here is an account of what happened the night John Jones died given by
his mother in 1911 to B.W. Cookson for The Sydney Sun's Kelly Gang
From Within newspaper series. This was from the Saturday, September 2,
1911 edition:
"It was a terrible day. And when the police came and started firing
bullets into the house-it was full of people-it was awful. Brave
police! They lay in the gullies, and behind the trees, and shot bullets
at the house, knowing that it was full of people. My poor innocent
little children suffered most. My little boy was shot." A paroxysm of
coughing and weeping convulsed the invalid for a few minutes. It was
with cheeks wet with tears that she continued. "My brave little girl was
shot, too-shot with a big rifle bullet that had gone through half the
house first, or it would have killed her. The bullets were coming all
through the house, tearing through the walls, smashing everything,
and- ... Oh, my poor, innocent children! I shall never forget them.
"My poor little boy was mortally hurt. But no one had mercy. The police
kept on shooting, and no one knew who would be the next to fall. The
bullets were doing the outlaws no harm at all. They were only hurting
us. The police might have rushed the place easily and captured them-if
they had been men enough. But they were not men. They lay there in
safety and kept firing at the house.
"DEAR MOTHER I'M SHOT!"
"When my dear little boy was hit he stood up, looked around, and then
fell down. 'Oh, God,' he cried, in such a piteous voice. 'Mother, dear
mother, I'm shot!'...."
The recollection of this pitiful tragedy caused the old woman to break
into a fit of frantic sobbing. It was with a choking voice that she
proceeded:-
"I could not get to the poor child for some time. He was lying on the
floor, bleeding from a great bullet wound in his little back....The
murdering police! They had killed him!....When I got to him I turned him
over. He was all blood....I found the hole....It was terrible....His
life-blood was pouring out of it, and his poor little white face was
turned up, the eyes looking into mine as though imploring help....Oh, my
God, forgive those who did this thing!...I tore off part of my apron,
and tried to stop up the hole in his back with it....I wanted to go out
for help, but Dan Kelly would not let me, 'You can't go,' he said,
'we're turning the prisoners out now.' "So I could only go back to my
dying boy and cry over him. There was no help... " 'What can we do?' the
Kellys said.
" 'Go! Go out! You cowards! Go out and play on the green! Go out and
fight like men if you want to fight! Or run away like curs if you are
afraid! Go out of here! Do you want to see all my family murdered? Oh,
you cowardly wretches!"
"But I couldn't move them. They wouldn't go. They were getting very
sober and very sad by this. The police were all round the house, scores
of them, and it seemed as if they couldn't escape. And there was my
innocent boy, dying on the floor, to warn them what would happen to
bloodthirsty men like themselves.
"My daughter and I dragged my wounded son into the kitchen between us.
Two or three got hold of him and took him out and started to carry him
to Reardon's, where we might get help. But the police stopped them, and
said if they didn't go back they'd blow holes in them. "I was frantic
with anguish and anxiety-the anxiety to do something for my dying boy.
I called out to the police to let us go. They refused. I said to
them, 'Get up, you wretches, and die in the road yourselves! Don't lie
down there in hiding! Stand up like men!' "All this time the bullets
were flying about thick. But I never got hit. I wouldn't have cared if I
had. I was mad with grief. I had had a daughter killed only a few months
before, and now it seemed that all my children were to be massacred....I
was mad. "The police hated me. The Kellys believed I used to 'plant'
police in my house. It was a foolish lie-there was no room. You
couldn't hide a cat in it.
"I was wandering....My boy died. Died miserably and without help. And my
brave little girl, who was wounded herself, never got over it....She
died not long after...."
(The John Jones article above was typed up by Sharon Hollingsworth) |
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