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

Maggie. And Dan. And you. But I couldn’t do it.” For a long time, she doesn’t speak. “He needs to be stopped,” she says. “The Rum Corps won’t do it. They had the chance after Maggie, but they’re too afraid of another uprising.”

I nod silently.

“And the croppies,” she says, “they’re blinded by him. They can’t see the kind of man he truly is. The colony would be better off without him. And the Irish need to follow a better man.” Her eyes plead with mine. “He needs to be stopped,” she says again.

I open my mouth to speak, but can’t find the words. “I couldn’t,” I say finally.

“Of course you could. You despise him. And he wants Blackwell dead. You’re strong enough to do it, Nell. I’m not.”

I think of myself, tearful and pleading when I’d first been hauled away by the thief-takers in London. How have I become the strong one?

I think of the night I had stood outside Owen’s hut with the knife in my hand. And I think of Dan Brady’s body, lying lifeless in the alley. I have already become a killer. Or is Lottie telling the truth? I have no thought of it. All I know is that now she is the one who will be taken to the gallows. And I am the one who is to live.

“You must,” says Lottie. “Or else more of us will die. More croppies. And more of the factory lasses.”

She has given her life for me. And so what can I do but agree?

*

The guard escorts me down the corridor, towards the heavy wooden doors that lead to the outside world. A part of me is oddly reluctant to step through them; to do so is acknowledge completely this sacrifice Lottie has made for me. Acknowledge she will be sent to the scaffold in my place. And acknowledge that she is sending me out into the world to end Patrick Owen’s life.

Before I step into the street, I look back at the guard. “Lieutenant Blackwell’s family.” I say. “Have there been letters sent informing them of his death?”

I think of Blackwell’s father. I think of Sophia. The next ship to England leaves in days’ time. And I have no idea whether Blackwell will be aboard. But word of his death must not leave the harbour. If news of the murder is sent on the ship, it could be years before his family learns the truth.

“The situation has been rectified,” says the guard. He has been stiltedly polite to me since he has learned I did not kill his schoolmate. “The letter informing his father of the murder has been recalled.”

“And his wife?” I ask.

“The lieutenant has no wife.”

“He does,” I say. “Sophia.”

The guard looks at me curiously. “Sophia died years ago in London. Long before Blackwell came out here.”

I feel suddenly hot and unsteady. “Are you certain?”

“Certain as anything,” says the guard. “I was at her burial.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

The weight of it all cows me. Sophia’s burial and Lottie’s sacrifice and this great overwhelming relief that I am standing here; living, breathing. Sydney Town is searing in its brightness and I hunch for long moments in the street outside the jail, wearing the grey flannel smock I had expected to die in. My heart is thundering in my chest, a stark reminder that I have survived.

I fill my lungs with air, trying to steady myself. I was not supposed to see this world again. I have no idea how to act within it.

My head is full of Lottie, of Owen, of Blackwell. Of beautiful curly-haired Sophia lying lifeless in her grave.

I push the thought of her away. There is no room in my mind to grapple with the reason for Blackwell’s lies.

I know he has gone to the Owens’ cottage. I know he is in danger. And I know that, for all his painful untruths, I have no choice but to find him.

By afternoon, I am walking a narrow track out of Sydney Town, following the river into tangled wilderness. One pocket is stuffed with bread, the other with an apple I had taken from the Whaler’s kitchen.

“You sure about this, Nell?” Charlie had asked, when I’d gone to him for directions. Kate clung to my wrist as I filled a flask of water. “It’s a hell of a walk.”

I am terrified, but sure. I know this is where I must go to find Blackwell. And only once I have done such a thing can I turn my thoughts to what Lottie has asked of me.

I trudge along the riverbank, following the narrow path along the water. Trees hang low, trying to reclaim the wilderness. Thin walking tracks are beaten into the bush, interlocking paths carved by the boots of twenty years of settlers. Flies swarm about my face, clouds of mosquitoes rising from the mangroves.

I keep walking, my skirts in my fist and my eyes darting. My shift is damp with sweat, and my hair curls and clings to my cheeks.

I will see James Squires’ inn at Kissing Point, Charlie has told me. And from there I must turn in towards the forest to find that hut belonging to the Owens.

I feel certain Blackwell will not find the absolution he is looking for. Instead, he will stand on that doorstep and make himself a target. If he comes face to face with the woman who watched him kill her family, it will not be forgiveness he receives. It will likely be a ball to the chest.

As I walk and walk, my thoughts turn to Sophia. To all the lies Blackwell had told me. Lies, I see clearly, that were constructed to keep me at a distance.

I understand. I despise it, but I understand. For all my twelfth night balls and worsted gowns, I