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

the flickering lamplight, they are glazed and expectant. Fearful. The sight of his terror brings a rush of satisfaction.

I hear my heart thudding in my ears. An animal shrieks in the bush beyond the hut. The sound seems both close and far away. The world feels unsteady, as though I am being tossed upon the seas.

The next sound I hear is footsteps. Soft footfalls against the floor of the cottage. Owen is walking. He has decided I will not shoot. Has decided I am too weak.

I tighten my hands around the stock of the pistol, feeling my finger on the trigger. And then I feel Blackwell’s hand against my shoulder. I lower the pistol and set it on the table as I hear Owen’s footsteps disappearing into the bush. Let him walk, I think, as he is swallowed by the darkness. Let him carry his guilt, and his shame, just as the rest of us must.

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

A swarm of people has gathered in George Street, waiting for the gates of the jail yard to open. A woman’s execution always draws a crowd.

People are chatting excitedly, laughing, children leaping over puddles. I want to scream; want to shake them. How can there be chatter, laughter, leaping, when Lottie is to die?

My eyes dart, searching for Owen. I pray he will stay away. I don’t want Lottie to know I have failed to do as she has asked. And I don’t want him to be the last thing she sees before she dies.

I don’t see Owen, but I do see Blackwell. As the gates creak open and the crowd funnels through, our eyes meet. I look away quickly.

At the sight of the hangman standing upon the gallows, I am breathless. I have never seen a person put to death. And just a few days earlier the noose had been tied for me. I want to rush from the jail yard. Close my eyes and pretend this isn’t happening. Pretend that when I next step into the Rocks I will find Lottie in the kitchen with a baby’s basket at her feet. I try to breathe. And against every thread of instinct I have, I push my way to the front of the crowd. I need Lottie to see me. I need her to know that today she is not alone.

Though my eyes are on the noose dancing in the hot wind, I’m aware of Blackwell making his way towards me. Always, I’m aware of him.

He pushes his way through the crowd and stands behind me. Puts a hand to my shoulder. And yes, this simple gesture is a big thing, a part of me sees that. Him with his red coat and me with my convict stain, and anyone in the colony who could see us. But it is not enough to undo two years of lies.

In spite of myself, a part of me wants to step closer. Let him hold me while I watch Lottie die. But I don’t want to be comforted by him. I don’t want to need him. I’ve already needed him far too much. I take a step away.

Out Lottie comes from the jail; a soldier in front of her, behind her; a rifle at her back. Her chin is lifted defiantly, and her eyes are sharp. She has conjured up her pride, her confidence, her brassiness, and I am glad of it. This is the way I want to remember her; not as the tearful mess she had been the last time we had spoken. She looks strikingly, painfully alive.

I think of that tiny smile she had given me the day I had first arrived in Parramatta; a smile that had done so much to calm me, to reassure me, to show me this place had some humanity in it.

I think of drinking with her by the river, and of dancing on Christmas night. And I think of standing outside her hut the day she had been betrothed to Owen, begging her to stay. What if I had found kinder words? Or had not turned away from her when she’d had the men tell me of Blackwell’s crimes? Could I have tried harder to keep her marrying? Tears well up behind my eyes – I know it is far too late for any of these questions.

She climbs the scaffold on steady legs. My throat is tight and my heart is fast. I look up at her. I want her to see how grateful I am that she came forward, gave herself up to save me. Still, I have no thought of whether she is telling the truth about Dan Brady’s death. Perhaps I never will. There are no more words I can say to her, of course, but I meet her gaze; thank her, forgive her for leading Owen to Blackwell. Hope the look in my eyes tells her how much I love her.

As the hangman slides the noose over her head, I feel my body grow hot, begin to shake. I keep my feet planted in the dust of the jail yard, praying my legs will support me. I hold my breath and clench my jaw, as though trying to preserve this last fleeting second of Lottie’s life.

A knock of the trapdoor and she is gone. A quick death, but one that feels all too easy. As though it is nothing but a trifle to take a factory lass from the world.

I stumble out of the jail. There is a strange energy to the place. Perhaps it’s just my imagination; I am dizzy and unsettled as I try to navigate this world of which Lottie is no longer a part.

Soldiers are gathering in the street, murmuring among themselves. Blackwell passes me and his eyes meet mine. Then he leaves the jail with the other soldiers. Crunch and thud go the boots, in flawless formation.