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

went out into the street, staring through the darkness the soldiers had disappeared into. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered.

It felt as though this fragile colony was teetering. I had little doubt the army would quell another rebel uprising as quickly as they had the first. But I knew they would not do so without blood being shed. And I knew if the croppies rose up in battle, Blackwell would be a target. Would likely be the first to die.

I whirled around at the sound of footsteps. Found Dan Brady standing in the road behind me. Had he been watching the soldiers too?

I felt the sudden urge to hurry back to the farmhouse. But I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he unnerved me.

“I thought you’d be out there pounding down the jail doors,” I said. “Trying to free those two croppies they locked up. Or are they not as important to you as Patrick Owen?”

Brady chuckled humourlessly. “If we rose up every time a croppy were mistreated there’d be none of us left.”

“I know,” I said. “It’s not right. I was there when it happened. Any fool could see they were just speaking their own language.”

Brady tilted his head, considering me. I could tell he was surprised by my agreement.

“And yet here you are,” he said, “staring out into the night after your lieutenant.”

I felt my cheeks burn. Was grateful for the darkness.

I didn’t reply. Admitting to it made me feel like a fool.

Brady jabbed his pipe in the direction the soldiers had disappeared. “You think this is right, sasanaigh? The redcoats out training to take us all down? So Blackwell can take more innocent lives?”

I clenched my teeth, forcing my anger away. “Instead we’re all just to sit back and let the croppies take over the colony? Do you truly think that’s what’s best for this place?”

Brady chuckled. “What does a factory lass know about what’s best for this place?”

I said nothing. He was right, of course. What did I know?

“I know how it feels to be powerless,” I told him. “Just like you do.”

“That’s right,” said Brady. “You do.” He took a step closer, pointing a long finger at me. “But here’s the difference between us, Nellie. Us croppies fight for what we want. The factory lasses just sit back and accept things the way they are.”

CHAPTER NINETEEN

“A light punishment for rebellion will excite revenge, not terror … Transport all prisoners in the gaols and give full power to the generals.”

 

Advice from England to Undersecretary Cooke, Dublin

The Rebellion Papers

12th March 1797

The next day, the Irishmen from the chain gang were dragged from the cells for a flogging. Robert Leaver, the most patriotic of Englishmen, herded us all from the farmhouse to watch. A crowd had gathered, the murmur of voices thick in the air. Soldiers lined the edges of Jail Green, rifles held at the ready. Reverend Marsden paced in front of the triangle, thick arms folded across his chest.

The two prisoners were dressed in grimy shirtsleeves and breeches that reached just past their knees. They were led out to the green, a mess of bloodied faces and swollen eyes.

I thought of untouchable Patrick Owen, merely sent on his way after striking an officer. Protected from punishment by his position as the rebels’ leader.

Was this the government’s way of striking back against the Irish? Flogging two lowly convicts for speaking their native language? Surely no one truly believed them capable of inciting another uprising. These were simply men they could punish without fearing backlash. Or was I just being naïve?

The first of the prisoners was shoved towards the triangle, shirt yanked from his body and his arms bound to the structure, high above his head.

I glanced around the crowd for Blackwell. There was no sign of him. No doubt he had marched off on last night’s drill. I wondered stiffly what he would think of all this.

No. I knew what he would think of this, and the thought was an uncomfortable one. Blackwell was a lieutenant in the New South Wales Corps. He had fought in the Castle Hill uprising. Had fought in the rebellion in Ireland. Hardly a man who would sympathise with a couple of lowly croppies. I pushed the thought aside. What difference did it make? The only one of Blackwell’s thoughts that mattered was his decision to send me away.

The first crack of the whip made my shoulders tighten. The prisoner cried out as it tore through his bare skin. Beside me, Amy murmured and turned away.

The flogger hurled the cat again. The prisoner tried to swallow his cry.

“This isn’t right,” I said, to no one in particular. “These men aren’t plotters.”

On the other side of me, Leaver’s farmhand chuckled, taking the pipe out from between his teeth. “I hadn’t picked you as a rebel sympathiser.”

“I’m not a rebel sympathiser,” I said. “Those men just didn’t understand what was being asked of them. Any fool could see that.”

“Aye.” He took a long draw on his pipe. “It’s politics. It weren’t about their crimes. It were just about the government making a point.”

I clenched my teeth. There hadn’t seemed to be a point to make when Owen had his hands around Maggie’s throat.

I felt horribly on edge. Each crack of the whip rattled through me, as though the cat were striking my own body. I felt my muscles tighten, my stomach turn over. My thoughts were storming; with Maggie, with Lottie, with Owen. With wife and concubine and these blood-streaked convicts.

The officer overseeing the flogging stepped close to one of the prisoners, their noses inches apart. “What are you planning?” he hissed.

The prisoner groaned out a line of Irish.

“Give him another hundred,” said the