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

would have been insulted had I not been too sick to care. I felt shame wash over me then. Shame that came not from hunching in a corner of a convict ship with half my insides on my skirts. But from looking down upon these women crammed below decks with me.

Hannah was right; I’d hardly spoken a word since London. I’d told myself I was above them; all those dirt-encrusted women I shared a shit bucket with. I had been raised to look down on people of their kind. But with each day, my old life grew more distant, and I began to see things as they really were. What place did I have to look down on these women? What separated us other than the fact that they had stolen to feed their families, while I had carted counterfeit coins around the city? That didn’t make me better than them. It made me a fool.

When the door of the cell finally creaked open, I started at the sound. I cowered in the corner, squinting into the shaft of light from the soldier’s lamp.

“What day is it?” I asked, my voice husky from disuse. “Am I to be released?”

The soldier chuckled. “Unless you fancy another night in here.”

With a hand pressed to the wall for balance, I made my way out of the cell and into the street. I stood outside the jail for a moment, inhaling deep lungfuls of the clean, fragrant air. I stretched my arms above my head, and rolled my shoulders, my whole body aching.

It was night, but after the blackness of the cell, the lamp above the jail door made it feel as bright as morning. I walked across the bridge towards High Street. A peal of laughter rose from a group of men outside the tavern. And in that moment, Henry Wilder and Jonathan were gone. I was relieved to have escaped the dark, and the past it had pulled me into.

I walked slowly back towards the hut. It wouldn’t have surprised me if Blackwell wanted me to leave. After all, I’d struck one of his fellow soldiers.

I could see the lamp flickering through the window. It made me realise how much I did not want him to send me away.

I stood outside the door for a moment, debating whether to knock. I decided against it. That little mud hut was the closest thing I had to a home. I wanted it to feel that way.

Blackwell was stooping by the fire, stirring the embers to life. A pot hung on the hook above the grate. He looked at me for a long second, his eyes giving nothing away.

Suddenly, I was acutely aware of the grime on my skin and the blood on my hands. Aware of the stench of the cells that had followed me back to the hut. Without speaking, I went to my little pile of clothing in the corner. Took my clean dress and shift, and hurried outside, making my way to the river. I could hear the water sighing in the dark.

I took off my boots and stepped into the river. The iciness of it stole my breath, making me gasp aloud. But there was something exhilarating about the feel of the water against my skin.

With the river lit only by the moon, I stripped myself naked and stepped deeper into the river. The tide was high, and I could feel the swell trying to tug me towards the sea. I kept my feet firmly planted in the mud as I scrubbed at my skin. Above my head, an owl let out its husky, jagged cry. I lifted my face to the sky, inhaling the clean air. I plunged my head beneath the surface and the sounds of the world around me fell away, leaving only a deep, sighing silence. I felt the water move around my face, the cold making my blood pump hard. I emerged breathless and shivering, but blessedly clean.

I stepped out of the water and pulled on my clean clothes. I squeezed the water from my hair and let it hang wet down my back.

When I returned to the hut, Blackwell had placed a bowl of soup on the table. He nodded towards it. “Sit down. You must be hungry.”

I paused. “What about you?”

“I’ve eaten already. I wasn’t sure if you were to be released today. But there’s enough left for another bowl.”

I perched on the edge of the chair, looking up at him. “Will you sit with me?” I asked. “I’d appreciate the company.”

Blackwell sat. Pretended not to watch while I spooned the soup into my mouth. It was thin and flavourless, but its warmth was achingly welcome after five days of bread and water. After only a few mouthfuls, my stomach felt full and slightly unsettled.

“You’re lucky you didn’t hang,” said Blackwell. “It’s a serious crime to strike an officer.”

I nodded, eyes down. I knew that well, of course. Knew who held the power in this place.

I wanted to speak; to put into words that desperate need to be seen I’d felt the night I’d gone to Marsden’s property. To be more than just a discarded convict, sent to New South Wales to be forgotten. And I wanted to speak of the wild anger that had torn through me when the soldier had looked me up and down and called me whore.

When I looked up at Blackwell, his eyes were on me, intense and dark in the candlelight. I felt seen. Unforgotten. And in that moment it was enough to be sitting at the table with another human being, feeling warm soup sliding down my throat.

“You’re right,” Blackwell said after a moment. “About Patrick Owen being untouchable.”

I stopped eating suddenly, the spoon halfway to my mouth.

He said no more, as though he knew he had crossed a