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

Afraid as I was for Blackwell, I understood then why the Irish felt the need to rise up, to fight against the hand they’d been given. I thought of what Dan Brady had told me the night the Rum Corps had left on their drill.

The factory lasses just sit back and accept things…

There’d been anger among us the day of Maggie’s murder. But how quickly we’d been put back into our place. How easy we were to tug back into line. While the croppies plotted and planned rebellions, we just lifted our skirts so we might have a place to sleep. Bared our skin in the lamplight so we might have a little sway. We were weak and voiceless.

“This isn’t right,” I said again.

I felt a firm fingers digging into the top of my arm. Turned to see Leaver inches behind me.

“Shut your mouth,” he hissed, breath hot against my cheek. “Just who do you think you are?”

I clenched my teeth, closing my eyes as the whip fired again. I felt as though an enormous weight were pressing down on me.

Tonight those prisoners would sleep with flayed backs because they had dared speak their own language. Marsden’s register was on its way around London, painting us as concubines. And now Owen, the man who had taken Maggie from us, was to take Lottie as well.

For the rest of the day, I went about my chores in a daze. I felt hot and disoriented. Unable to see clearly. I spoke to Amy and the cook in terse, one-word answers. And when the house grew dark, I went to the kitchen and pulled a knife from the drawer.

I felt oddly outside myself as I made my way across the farm and stepped into the street. My thoughts were hazy. Likely, there was a part of my brain preventing me from thinking too clearly in case I saw the foolishness of my behaviour.

I strode towards Owen’s hut, my hand tight around the handle of the knife. I felt a surge of determination.

Once, I’d blindly followed my husband, believing I had no other choice. But I saw now that I had had a choice, and I’d made the wrong one. I’d made the choice to believe myself powerless; to let circumstances carry me away like the tide. And now, in this place, where I felt more powerless than ever, I’d made the decision to be powerless no more.

My hand tightened around the knife handle. I would die for this, of course; some distant part of me knew that. But it didn’t matter. It was hard to value my own life when no one else did. I would face the hangman, but Owen would finally have his punishment. Maggie would have justice and Lottie would be safe. And men would learn they would not get away with murdering a factory lass.

The darkness was thick and cold; just a few stars straining through the cloud bank. I could feel the emptiness all around us. A day by barge to Sydney Town. Half a lifetime to the existence I had once known. The place felt inescapable.

I stood several feet from the door of Owen’s hut, feeling the smooth bone handle of the knife between my fingers.

How would it be, I wondered? Was there someone in the hut with him? Someone who would witness his death? Was Lottie in there?

A part of me hoped so. She would see the things I was willing to do to save her. She would see that, even though we had grown distant, I still loved her like a sister.

How would I do it? A blade through the heart? Or perhaps the throat. The thought caused me to inhale sharply. When had I become a woman who could do such a thing? It was a natural progression, I supposed; obedient daughter to obedient wife, convict to murderess.

I felt capable. And I felt ready.

Here were the footsteps again. Distant, dreamlike. The soldiers returning. They would drag me to trial, put a rope around my neck. But not before Owen was dead.

“Eleanor. What are you doing?”

It took a moment for me to register that Blackwell’s voice had not come from inside my head.

I turned to look at him. He stood a foot behind me, dressed in full uniform, his rifle slung across his back. I slipped the knife into my pocket, keeping my fingers wrapped around the handle.

Blackwell looked at the shack, then back at me. “This is Patrick Owen’s hut.”

I squeezed my eyes closed. “Go away.”

“What are you doing?” he asked again.

I turned back towards Leaver’s farm, unsure what else to do. Blackwell took my arm gently, preventing me from leaving. “What’s happened?”

I felt tears threatening. No, this was all wrong. I was not supposed to fall apart. I was supposed to charge into Owen’s home and deliver the justice he had so far escaped. But instead, Blackwell was leading me towards his hut, his hand around my wrist, and I was going without hesitation.

Inside the hut, everything was just as I remembered, except for the bare space on the floor where my sleeping pallet had been. I wanted to leave. But his hand was still firm around my wrist and I couldn’t find the strength to pull away.

I shifted my fingers on the handle of the knife, to stop it falling from my pocket. Blackwell lifted my hand in his, bringing the blade out into the light.

He looked down at the knife, then back at me. “What were you doing at Owen’s hut?”

“He’s to marry Lottie,” I said, not looking at him.

“And so you will kill him?”

“He deserves to die,” I said. “He murdered Maggie.”

Blackwell stood motionless for a long second. “You don’t want to kill him,” he said evenly.

“And how