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

I know that somehow, this has to end. But Blackwell is walking towards Owen without a weapon. And I see that this can only end one way.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

 

 

“Now my boys, liberty or death.”

 

Philip Cunningham,

Leader of Castle Hill rebellion

Sunday 4 March 1804

 

Faint light appears in the window of the cottage. Blackwell walks towards it, his steps almost soundless against the undergrowth.

I crawl back into the shelter, feeling my way through the flickering light for his pack. A water flask. A husk of bread. Jar of potted meat. I find no weapon.

I let out my breath in frustration and crawl back out of the shelter. Hand the lamp to Kate.

“Stay here,” I tell her, putting my hand to her back to usher her inside. She crawls onto the blanket and sits up on her knees. “Rest,” I say, though her eyes are wide and bright. Lamplight flickers on her cheeks, and for a second I see her mother.

The cottage door is hanging open. I can see Owen at the table. Blackwell sits opposite him, on chairs they have reclaimed from the wilderness. There is a pistol in the centre of the table, Owen’s hand splayed over it.

“You’re not welcome in this place, Lieutenant,” he is saying. “You shouldn’t have come.” He shifts in his chair, making it creak loudly.

Blackwell nods slowly. “I understand. And if you wish to kill me now, I understand that too.”

Owen falters. A response he was not expecting. He glances out the door. “Where’s Nell? I know she’s here.”

“Your business is with me,” says Blackwell. “Not with her.”

But Blackwell knows nothing of the silent promise I made to Lottie as we knelt together in her jail cell. My business with Patrick Owen goes far deeper than either of these men know.

You’re strong enough to do it, Nell. I hadn’t believed her words then and I don’t believe them now. But I want to.

Owen’s hand tightens around the pistol and I clench my teeth to keep from crying out. If I force myself to look at this from his perspective, I can see the perfection of Blackwell dying in this place. Of catching him here so his blood might be added to that he had spilled.

Owen turns the pistol over and shuffles in his chair. It scrapes noisily against the earthen floor. Opposite him, Blackwell is motionless. His hands are curled around his knees, chest open as though awaiting the shot. Taller, broader; he is the more dominant of the men, without even trying.

He faces Owen, waiting. Waiting for him to do as he has been invited, and pull the trigger.

I see then that Blackwell’s invitation has taken the power out of this moment. Maggie’s murder had been a way for Owen to prove his dominance, Lottie had said. He kills to be powerful, to be strong. But where is the power in this?

“Where is Nell?” he asks again.

“I’m here,” I say, stepping inside the hut. Blackwell glances at me. My eyes go to the pistol on the table, then I look back at Owen, expectant.

“The girl,” he says. “Who is she?”

“You know who she is.”

His jaw tightens.

What does he see when he looks at Kate? Does he see her mother writhing beneath his hands as he crushed the life from her? Or does he just see something to be discarded, like Maggie, like Lottie, like his son?

His breathing grows louder. Is he rattled by the sight of Kate Abbott, with her mother’s eyes, her mother’s face? Is he haunted by his own ghosts, just as Blackwell is? Have the women of the factory somehow crawled beneath his skin?

“Does she make you feel guilty, Owen?” I ask. “Does she make you think of her mother?”

“Guilty?” he repeats, his humourless laugh sounding hollow in the stillness. “Why would I feel guilty? They’re just worthless lags.”

In a flash of rage, I snatch the gun from the table. Hold it out, Owen in my line of sight. And in a second, Blackwell is on his feet. I feel his hands on my shoulders, easing my arms down. And then he stops. Steps back.

He is giving me the choice, I realise. He is letting me make my own decision.

Untouchable Owen. If I pull the trigger here, with only Blackwell as a witness, I know I would avoid the hangman. My thoughts are far clearer than they were the night I had walked towards Owen’s hut with a kitchen knife in my hand.

I couldn’t do it then, but perhaps I can do it now.

For a moment, I see it; Owen’s body slumping as I fire into his chest. The look of shock on his face as he falls; surprise that he might be taken out by a factory lass. I imagine the sense of satisfaction I will feel to know I have done as Lottie had asked. To know there is some tiny flicker of justice in this place.

And then I see the Irish rebels, gathering, rising at the death of their leader, inspired to seek revenge. Placing the blame for Owen’s murder at Lieutenant Blackwell’s feet.

And it won’t be satisfaction I feel; not really. It will be that awful sickness I felt when I saw Dan Brady’s body sprawled across the alley. And it will be terror at the thought that there are still days until Blackwell’s ship leaves for England and the croppies may ensure he does not see them out.

I keep the pistol held out in front of me. Still, I don’t know what my decision will be. Perhaps Owen’s death will let me feel some hollow sense of justice. Perhaps it will still the constant churning in my chest. Or perhaps taking his life will haunt me forever.

Owen’s eyes meet mine for a moment. In