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

and hope the wife hunters saw only the obedience that had led me to New South Wales.

I left the celebration early and crawled off to bed, hanging my dust-streaked skirts over the chair in the corner of the room. I’d grown used to my tiny, silent bedroom; to the feel of waking alone each morning. I closed my eyes, my body aching with exhaustion. I craved the escape of my dreams.

From the back of the property I could hear the distant laughter of the farmhands. The steady wail of the cicadas. I shifted on the mattress, the air hot and stifling. And as I waited for sleep to pull me down, I heard another sound. Rhythmic footsteps, like an army in motion. Approaching, passing, fading away.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

 

 

“Our servant burst into the parlour pale and violent in agitation … he told us that the croppies had risen … we then learnt that Castle Hill was in flames. The fire was discernible from Parramatta. It was recommended that as many ladies as chose should go to Sydney, as constant intelligence was brought into the barracks of the near approach of the Irishmen.”

 

Elizabeth Macarthur

1804

 

I was on my way to the apothecary for Mrs Leaver when the chain gang shuffled out into the street, arms laden with hammers and saws. With chaotic footsteps, and leg irons rattling, they edged towards a building site close to Government House. Two soldiers marched along beside them. I recognised one of them as Ensign Cooper, who had sent Owen away the day he had attacked Blackwell.

I stood watching for a moment, the empty basket held against my chest. New South Wales had left its mark on me – the scar above my eyebrow, the calluses on my hands, the restlessness in my heart – but at that moment I was grateful for the hand I had been dealt since I’d stepped off the Norfolk. And perhaps I was even grateful to be a woman. My ankles were not scarred from chains, and my back was not flayed when I stepped out of line. I did not spend my days breaking rocks and building the government’s houses. But gratitude felt like a dangerous thing. A thing that could so easily be taken away.

One of the convicts glanced at me and I turned away, unable to bear the sorrow in his eyes.

“What did you say?” I heard Cooper roar, his voice coming from nowhere and making me start. He loomed over two men at the back of the chain gang. Jabbed one in the side with the nose of his rifle. “What d’you say, bog-trotter?”

The man looked up at him with blank, frightened eyes.

“He don’t speak no English, sir,” the man behind him ventured. Cooper slammed the butt of the rifle into his nose. The man crumpled, blood spurting down the front of his shirt.

Several of the convicts began to shout in protest, others kept their eyes down. People appeared from inside the shops and taverns, watching as the convict’s blood vanished into the mud. I pressed my back against the wall of the apothecary.

Here came more soldiers, marching in step, their coats stark against the muted earth and green.

“They’re plotters, sir,” I heard Cooper say to the captain striding towards him. “Bloody Irish rebels.” The captain bent down and unlocked the shackles of the beaten man, along with the prisoner who had defended him.

“Take them to the cells. Find out what they’re planning.”

I hurried back to the farmhouse with the tonics for Mrs Leaver.

Plotters.

Take them to the cells.

Did the soldiers truly believe the men were planning another uprising? Or was this just a show of strength? A warning to the wayward Irish?

I found Mrs Leaver sitting up in bed, blankets piled up over her knees. With her second child on the way, she was pale and weak with nausea.

I placed the tonics on the table beside her bed. “The apothecary said these will help. Shall I boil up the ginger? Make you some tea?”

“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She sat her book on the nightstand and looked up at me. “Are you all right, Eleanor? You look a little out of sorts. Has something happened I ought to know about?”

I shook my head, smoothing her blankets and collecting the empty tea tray from the floor. “Nothing you ought to bother yourself with.”

And why, I wondered, was I so bothered by it myself? Why had the mistreatment of two Irish lags made me so unsettled? Was I afraid of a second rebellion? Afraid for Blackwell’s safety? Yes, but I was coming to see it was more than that. In the abuse of those croppies, I saw every injustice in the colony; the women with no place to sleep, the rations of rotted meat, Maggie’s murder and Owen’s freedom.

Since I’d made the choice to be ignorant no longer, I felt as though I were absorbing everything; the fear, the anger, the grief of the people I shared this place with. Everywhere I looked, I saw a thing to spark my anger; a thing that made me rail against my complete and utter powerlessness. I knew one day soon I would no longer be able to keep that rage inside.

 The cup rattled against its saucer as I carried the tray towards the door. I looked back at Mrs Leaver and forced a smile. “I’ll fetch you that tea.”

After supper that night, Amy knocked on the door of my room. I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, mending the hem of my striped gown.

“There’s a woman here for you. Says she knows you from the factory. She’s waiting for you out back.”

I put down my sewing and grabbed my shawl, murmuring my thanks as I headed for the door.

I found Hannah waiting for me outside the farmhouse, a