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

“Why did they do this?” I dared to ask.

He ran a hand through his hair. “Because I’m a murdering bastard.” His voice was low and dark. Was it sarcasm? Or self-disgust? I couldn’t tell.

“A little gift from the croppies, Lieutenant,” said a voice behind me. I whirled around to see Patrick Owen in the doorway. His arms were folded across his chest, and the grin on his face made me want to strike him.

Blackwell strode towards him and Owen backed out into the street. I put down the sack and followed.

Owen shoved against Blackwell’s chest, making him stumble backwards. No retaliation. Blackwell had several inches of height on the Irishman, his shoulders broader, arms thicker. But he made no attempt to fight, or to reach for his weapon and threaten Owen into leaving. It made me nervous. I knew Owen was the kind of man who’d carry a pistol in his pocket. The lieutenant was in close range. If there was a shot, he’d not survive it.

I raced out into High Street, searching for the soldiers on patrol. I found them pacing the alleys close to Marsden’s land. When they saw me charging towards them, their hands went instinctively to their rifles. But when I told them what was happening – Patrick Owen and Lieutenant Blackwell – they were off down the street without giving me another glance.

“Come on now, Blackwell,” Owen was drawling when I raced back to the hut, “you can do better than that.”

“I’m not going to fight you, Owen,” he said. “Get the hell out of here.”

Owen swung a wild fist. The blow landed on the side of Blackwell’s jaw, knocking him backwards into the wall of the hut. I heard a cry of shock escape me. The two soldiers darted forward, each grabbing one of Owen’s arms and yanking him away from the lieutenant.

“You all right, sir?” asked one.

Blackwell rubbed his jaw. “Fine. Just get rid of him.”

One of the marines shoved Owen hard in the back, making him stumble into the street. “Get out of here, you mad bog-jumper.”

Owen chuckled. He dug his hands into his pockets and began to walk in the direction of the tavern.

“What?” I demanded. “He’s just to walk away after—”

“Eleanor,” Blackwell snapped, silencing me.

One of the marines glanced at me, then at the lieutenant. “Shall I get rid of the lag too, sir?”

“No. That won’t be necessary.”

I stood with my arms wrapped around my body, watching as Owen disappeared around the corner.

And I realised it then. Realised why the blacks had been blamed for the death of Maggie Abbot, when so many fingers pointed to Patrick Owen. I turned to look at Blackwell. He was staring after Owen too, a hand pressed to the side of his jaw.

“Owen is untouchable,” I said. “He can do as he likes and he’ll never be punished. I’m right, aren’t I?”

Blackwell didn’t answer.

“Why?” I pushed.

But he had retreated to silence. I could tell it was up to me to put the pieces together. I bent down to pick up one of the tubers that had rolled into the road.

“Fetch some water from the river,” Blackwell said tersely. “There’s a lot of cleaning to do.”

*

The next day was a visiting day; a day when the men crowded the factory floor and watched as we paraded ourselves as potential wives. A settler just arrived from Sydney Town had been given his marriage certificate.

“A wife is required for this man,” the superintendent said, sounding as though he’d never been so bored in his whole damn life. “Those willing to be married, please step forward.”

For a moment, I thought of it. Choose me. Take me away from this place. Make me wife. My label of concubine sat heavy on my shoulders.

But I had seen how this circus worked. And I knew there would be questions.

Have you ever been married before? Yes? What happened to your husband?

I didn’t want my whole shameful story spilled out on the factory floor.

I stayed motionless, staring at my feet. Women from the Norfolk stepped forward, along with several others. The settler seeking a wife was young and handsome. A far better catch than most of the pock-faced scrubs who came traipsing through this place.

He chose a young girl from the Norfolk; a scrappy blonde thing who’d cried all the way to Gibraltar. Petite and birdlike, she made me feel like an ogre.

She gave the settler a tiny, shy smile, looking up at him with enormous blue eyes. I imagined her in her trial, weeping before the magistrate while telling a pitiful tale of a stolen cloak to keep out the snow.

“You ever been married before?” the settler asked her.

“No sir.”

And I thought of Jonathan Marling with a bullet in his chest, sure I’d be at the factory forever.

We drank at the river in celebration of the tearful girl from the Norfolk. Within an hour of the settler’s visit to the factory, she’d been hauled off to the church to sign her marriage papers. Now she was on her way to her new husband’s farm with a ticket of leave in her pocket.

Lottie sat beside me on the log, and we passed the dregs of a rum bottle back and forth between us.

“I thought you would have put yourself forward,” I told her. “Or did he not take your fancy?”

Lottie didn’t return my smile. “You know it’s not about that,” she said. “Marriage is a necessity. It’s the only chance I got of getting out of here. Getting out of old Bert’s bed.”

“So why did you not put yourself forward?”

Lottie hiccupped on the rum. “I’ve got to marry an Irishman, don’t I. My poor da would be rolling in his grave if