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

I hugged my knees. The men had fashioned a cricket bat out of a fallen tree branch and were whacking a cloth ball across the riverbank.

“Do you truly want a lifetime shackled to some mindless croppy?” I asked. “It’s not your only way out. They say good behaviour will get us a ticket of leave.”

We all talked about the ticket of leave like it was the key to the greatest treasure in the land. A mythical treasure, for while we all knew someone who’d managed to get a ticket, there weren’t one of us who had ever laid eyes on such a thing.

They said the magistrate handed out tickets whenever it suited him. There was no rhyme or reason to it, as far as any of us could tell. Stories were told of gentlemen convicts who’d stepped off the prison ship and had a ticket pressed into their hands. Others swore they could bribe their way to freedom. I knew several women who had climbed off the Norfolk with their liberty. I’d tried not to think of what they’d had to do to earn it.

“Is it true then?” I’d asked Blackwell one night. “We can bribe the magistrate for our freedom?”

True or not, I knew it was nothing but wishful thinking on my part. For the magistrate of Parramatta was the Reverend Samuel Marsden, and there was no way his fine, upstanding soul was getting bribed by a lowly concubine.

“A ticket of leave is a reward for good behaviour, not bribery,” Blackwell had said, his face as impassive and even as ever.

Lottie snorted. “When did a factory lass ever get her ticket of leave without marrying for it first? And besides, what good is a ticket if you got no man to support you?” Her eyes were on Patrick Owen as he strutted over from the cricket match. The back of my neck prickled with anger.

Untouchable Patrick Owen. His eyes caught mine for a second and he gave me a ghost of a smile.

I stood abruptly. I couldn’t just sit there across from him, sharing a drink like everything was all right. Lottie grabbed my arm and pulled me back down to the log.

“You’ve got to stop this,” she said. “He’s innocent.”

I snorted. “You can’t truly believe that.”

“Yes,” she said after a moment. “I do. The Rum Corps hates the Irish. If they could have put Owen on the scaffold, they would have. So aye, I believe he didn’t do it.”

I wrapped my arms around myself. She had things the wrong way around, I was sure. Owen’s innocence – or lack of it – had little to do with anything.

The Rum Corps hated the Irish, yes, but they knew Owen was revered among the rebels. Send him to the scaffold, and who knew what chaos would be unleashed? The night of his arrest, the settlement had been in disarray.

The authorities were playing a dangerous game; letting a criminal loose among us to keep the croppies down. I knew with grim certainty that Owen had killed Maggie. Maybe such a thing simply didn’t matter to the men who ran this place. What need was there for justice where the factory lasses were concerned? Perhaps it was far more crucial that a second Irish uprising was quelled.

Lottie planted the empty bottle in the dirt and stood, grabbing my arm and pulling me up beside her. “Come on. The drink’s finished. We need to get more.”

She looped her arm through mine as we walked towards the tavern.

“I wish you’d just give him a chance, Nell. That’s all I’m asking. He’s a good man. He’s got a real passion in him. He’s just doing what he thinks is best for his people.”

I decided not to tell her about Owen’s attack on Blackwell the night before. Nothing I said would make her change her mind, especially not where the lieutenant was involved. I knew it would only lead to conflict between us. And I didn’t want that. Having a friend in this place was far too precious.

But my hatred for Owen was roiling inside me, pushing against my chest. That morning, the side of Blackwell’s face had been purple with bruising after their altercation in the street. And one of the shelves Owen had kicked at had fallen in the night.

As we approached the tavern, I felt my stomach knot. I’d not set foot inside since the night I’d stolen the potatoes. Some foolish part of me was afraid I’d be recognised.

Lottie shoved open the door and we stepped inside through a curtain of pipe smoke. Men were clustered around the counter in mud-streaked shirts, cannikins of drink in grimy hands. I kept my eyes down as I followed Lottie to the bar. I recognised the woman serving as one of the convicts from the factory. Lottie reached into her pocket and handed over enough coin for the new rum bottle.

“Stay and keep us company, ginger,” said one of the men at the bar, sliding a hand around my waist. I shoved him away, his friends’ laughter ringing in my ears.

On the walk back to the river, Lottie was harping on about Owen and his cohorts again. My head was beginning to ache.

“Some of the croppies,” she began, “they were sent here after the rebellion in Ireland without their convict records. They were only sentenced to seven years. But it’s coming on eight now, and there’s no word of them being freed.” She turned to look at me, her hazel eyes shining. “Tell me you wouldn’t be angry if you that were you.”

I frowned. “I understand that, Lottie. But this is about Owen killing Maggie and leaving her body on the side of the road.”

Her eyes hardened. “You don’t understand,” she said. “How could you? How could you