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

And Dan Brady was up in my face, his nose inches from mine. “Watch yourself, Nellie,” he said. “You hear me? No one wants to hear you mouthing off about what you think happened.”

Lottie shoved him backwards. “I told you to leave her be.”

I looked back at Brady, determined not to let him see how much he had rattled me. “What does it matter what I think?”

“You’re right,” he said. “It don’t matter.” He turned back to the other men. And then they were off down the main street, striding towards the jail.

I hurried back to Blackwell’s hut, desperate for an escape. Through the cloth window, I could hear voices, footsteps, shouting in the street. Angry men, yelling in Irish.

With Blackwell on duty, the hut felt too quiet. I sat at the table, cutting up vegetables for soup while the clamour in the street grew louder. The chalky smell of a bonfire drifted beneath the door. I did my best to block out the noise. I needed that hut to feel safe. I realised I was craving Blackwell’s company.

My stomach was groaning by the time he returned. I guessed it close to midnight. I spooned the soup into bowls and sat them on the table.

He looked surprised to see me awake. But not angry.

“I attended Maggie Abbott’s burial,” he told me as he took off his coat and hung it on the nail beside the door.

“You did?” I felt a sudden swell of gratitude. “Tell me about it.”

He sat at the table and stirred his soup. “It was simple. Respectful. Reverend Marsden prayed over the coffin.”

“Who else was there?” I dared to ask.

“Several of the officers. Parker and his wife from the tavern. A few others.”

I was glad of it. “Thank you for attending.”

He nodded. Somewhere in the distance, I heard glass shatter. Blackwell’s eyes darted towards the door.

“Are you to sit on the jury in Owen’s trial?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“And do you think him guilty?” I felt it my duty to Maggie and the other factory lasses to prise out as much information as I could. I knew there were few other women in the colony who had the luxury of sitting opposite a solider and holding a civilised conversation.

Blackwell gave my boldness a ghost of a smile. “I can’t discuss that with you, Eleanor. You know that.”

“There were bruises on her arms,” I said. “She—”

“Yes.” Blackwell’s tone darkened a little. “You told me that before. And as I told you, there’s no proof Patrick Owen gave them to her.” I could hear the impatience in his voice. Knew I was pushing the issue.

I was saved by a knock at the door. Blackwell pulled it open and noise flooded in from the street. Two young soldiers stood outside the hut.

“I’m sorry to disturb you, sir,” said one. “Captain Daley has asked for you at the barracks.”

Blackwell nodded. “Tell him I’m on my way.” He closed the door on them, then grabbed his jacket from the nail. He slid on his gorget and buttoned his coat to his neck. He glanced at his pocket watch.

“Don’t venture outside tonight,” he told me.

“The rebels are angry,” I said. “Because Owen has been arrested.”

He didn’t answer. But I didn’t need the confirmation. I’d seen the anger in the eyes of Dan Brady and the other croppies. Knew they were fighting for justice for their leader. And I knew that in their eyes, Patrick Owen could do no wrong.

The hut felt cold and empty after Blackwell had left. I threw another log on the fire and scraped the last of our supper into the trough, setting the unwashed bowls on the edge of the table. I’d wait until morning to fetch water from the river.

I blew out the lamp and curled up on my sleeping pallet. The cut on my head was drumming.

I thought of the crude cross at the head of Maggie’s grave. Thought of her sashaying about the riverbank on Patrick Owen’s arm. Lottie was right of course; I had no proof it was Owen. But there was a certainty within me that he had wrung Maggie’s throat. And I ached for him to be punished.

The person I had been in London would never have let herself get drawn into such matters. Would never have prodded a soldier for answers or churned through evidence in my mind. I would have stepped back, hidden my eyes, told myself the world was as it should be. After all, the person I was in London had no reason to fight. I had everything I needed. I knew, of course, of the inequality in the world, but saw it as an unavoidable part of life. Back in London, the injustices of the world had largely fallen in my favour.

My father, in his own starched and stilted way, had loved me. I’d never doubted that. My mother had died in her childbed, and my father’s way through the loss was to lavish me with care and attention. I grew up with an endless parade of nurses and governesses, music teachers and tutors. A good head for arithmetic and a convincing French accent, I suppose Father assumed, would go some way to making up for my gaudy appearance.

I knew I was no great beauty, but I was confident in my intelligence. Father made sure I knew it a good substitute. He brought in master after master to train me in subjects far beyond the scope of most young women of my class. And each night, as we sat opposite each other at the supper table, he would quiz me on the things I had learned that day.

How might I ask for my supper in Italian, Eleanor? Or; Tell me about Herschel’s new planet…

As a child, my life had been laid out for