One of Us Buried by Johanna Craven (year 2 reading books TXT) 📕

land. Perhaps it was the doing of the savages, or some nameless creature that lived out there in the bush.

Maggie was dead, yes, but the horror of it was more manageable if she had not died at the hands of someone within the settlement.

Lottie turned away from me, pedalling rapidly in a sign our conversation was over.

I thought of Maggie’s body. Hoped she was being treated with a little respect. I knew the hospital was without a mortuary; had heard tales of bodies being discarded in the passageways. Was she being examined? Or did the Rum Corps see no point?

We were precious, yes, us women at the spinning wheels. But so achingly replaceable. One of us buried would be replaced by another the moment the next ship came in.

A sense of unease hung thick in the air as we pedalled and spun. Restless murmuring rippled through the room. A baby began to shriek, the sound making the muscles in my neck tense.

Heads turned as heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs. Blackwell and one of the enlisted men appeared in the doorway of the warehouse. They made their way towards the superintendent.

One of the women at the spinning wheels leapt to her feet and strode towards the soldiers. “What you going to do about this then? Are you going to catch the bastard what done this to Maggie?”

“There’ll be an investigation in due course,” Blackwell said shortly.

“An investigation?” Hannah cried. “What need do you have for an investigation? Everyone knows it were Patrick Owen that killed her!” She stood abruptly, knocking over her stool. “Whatever you may think of us, we ain’t bloody fools.”

The younger soldier strode towards her. “Sit down and shut your mouth.” He reached for Hannah’s arm, but she pulled away violently. He grabbed her arms and forced her downwards, pinning her to the ground. Hannah screeched and kicked against him. And at once, the women were on their feet, crowding around her, trying to tear the soldier away. Another baby joined in the wailing. Children scrambled towards their mothers. I stood as well. Somehow, staying in my seat and obeying orders felt like a slight on Maggie. A slight on Hannah.

Blackwell dashed towards the fight.

I saw Lottie’s eyes fall to him. Saw the hatred, the anger. And I saw her grab her stool by the legs and swing.

I had no thought of what I was doing. I was only aware of my body pitching instinctively towards Lottie, shoving her away from the lieutenant. And then of shock jolting through me as the full force of the wooden stool struck me instead.

It took a moment for the pain to hit, but when it did, it seared through my temple and brought me to my knees. Blood ran into my eye.

“Jesus, Nell,” Lottie cried, crouching beside me and gripping my shoulder. “What in hell are you doing?” She shrieked as she was yanked to her feet by the superintendent.

I felt a hand around the top of my arm, helping me stand. Blackwell’s imposing figure loomed over me.

 “Get your hands off her, you corrupt bastard!” Lottie kicked against the superintendent. “Do you hear me?”

Blackwell handed me over to the other soldier. “Take her out to the yard. And find something to stop the bleeding.”

I stumbled dizzily down the stairs, the soldier’s hand clamped to my elbow. I swiped at the blood with the hem of my apron. It kept spilling from the gash in my forehead, soaking through the fabric and staining the skin on my wrist. The shouting from the factory grew steadily softer. The soldier led me out to the jail yard and planted me on the narrow wooden bench beside the door. Beads of blood slid from my chin, turning black in the striped flannel of my skirts. The soldier produced a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it hard against the cut above my eye. Pain drummed steadily behind my forehead.

Blackwell appeared suddenly in the doorway, his footsteps crunching across the stone path. I was surprised to see him.

“Leave us,” he told the soldier. “I need to speak with her about the incident.” He took the bloodied handkerchief and knelt in front of me. He pressed it back against my forehead, then looked down at the crimson mess of my skirts. “Head wounds always bleed heavily,” he said. “But it isn’t deep. It looks worse than it is.”

I gripped the edges of the bench, my teeth clenched against the ache of it.

Though his eyes were level with mine, Blackwell somehow managed not to look at me. Did he know, I wondered, that it was Lottie who had done this? Had he seen me step in front of her flying stool? Or had it all happened so quickly he had no thought of it?

I was glad he didn’t ask for an explanation. I would not have been able to give it.

He lifted my hand and brought it to the handkerchief, gesturing for me to hold it in place. Then he disappeared into the jail for a moment, returning with a small bowl of water and a clean cloth.

He knelt opposite me again, dragging the cloth through the thin grey puddle at the bottom of the basin. Dabbed gently at the jewels of dried blood I could feel forming at my cheekbones.

“Maggie was murdered,” I said. It wasn’t fresh information to him, of course. I just needed him to know that I knew.

Blackwell’s hand tightened around the cloth. Water drizzled onto the path and disappeared into the earth. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

Sorry for what, I wondered?

I said, “It was Patrick Owen.”

Blackwell didn’t reply. Just slid the damp cloth over the side of my neck.

I waited for his questions, his interrogation. Wasn’t that why he had marched down from the factory after me? I had been the one