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

For a moment, I stand motionless, watching after them; that vibrant wash of colour against the muted earth and sandstone of Sydney Town. The Rum Corps dominates this land in every way.

On my walk back to the tavern, a dam opens inside me. The tears I have been holding back cascade down my cheeks. I cry messy, racking sobs as I walk, ignoring the stares of passers-by. I cry for Lottie, for Willie, for both my inability to kill Owen and out of gratitude for the fact I found the strength to let him go free. I cry over Blackwell’s lies, and for the convict stain I will never wash away. I cry because tomorrow he will be gone.

When I get back to the Whaler’s, my eyes are swollen and my cheeks are hot.

Charlie goes to the counter and pours a shallow cannikin of rum. Presses it into my hand without a word.

I manage a faint smile. “Thank you, Charlie. You’re good to me.”

“Ain’t hard,” he says with a smile. “Mouthful of liquor and you’re tame as a kitten.” He nods to the cup. “Drink up. It’ll help.”

I toss back the rum, relishing the warmth in my throat. “Where’s Kate?”

“Upstairs. Sweeping the hallway.” He gives me a pointed look. “She’s a good worker. But I can’t spare another room.”

I nod. “She can stay with me.”

“You sure?”

“Of course.” It feels like the least I can do for Maggie, and for all the women still weaving cloth in Parramatta.

Charlie takes a glass from the shelf and pours his own drink. “How was it?” he asks, elbows on the counter. “It happen quickly?”

I nod, my throat tightening. Two fresh tears slide down my face.

He reaches across the bar and squeezes my shoulder. “That’s all you can hope for.”

I turn the cannikin around in my hands. “It ought to have been me.”

Charlie tosses back his drink in one mouthful. “You remember killing that man?”

I shake my head. “I don’t remember anything except—”

“Well then,” he cuts in, “how do you know it ought to have been you?”

I appreciate his attempt to relieve me of my guilt. But I know the sight of Dan Brady with a bullet in his chest will haunt me until I die.

By evening, the tavern is busy, full of curious chatter. Soldiers march past the windows, people clustered to the sides of the street, cheering, hooting, booing as they pass.

Kate stands with her forehead pressed to the glass. “What’s happening, Nell?”

“I don’t know.” I look over her shoulder. A military band struts past the window, the pompous brass melody muted behind the glass. I usher Kate away. “Go and wipe those tables in the back.”

The gossip filters in later in the evening, the story told by men with shining eyes, the tale growing more theatrical with each cannikin of rum.

Captain Macarthur, the governor’s most prominent opponent, had refused to stand trial over unpaid fines.

“They say the judge owed Macarthur money,” one man tells me, jabbing his pipe in my face for emphasis. “Can’t hardly blame him for not wanting to be tried by such a man, now can you.”

Macarthur, another man announces, had been supported by the Corps officers presiding over the trial. And in response Governor Bligh had brought charges of treason upon the soldiers. Demanded they present themselves at Government House.

“Them officers, they didn’t go to Bligh,” says the man with the pipe. “They went to Johnson, their commanding officer. Then they all marched their way to Government House and overthrew the governor.” He slams his empty cup on the bar. “Another, lass. Fill it to the top this time.”

The conversation in the tavern becomes louder, more heated. There are those who support the Rum Corps’ coup. Others who are wary of the military’s power.

“They say Macarthur planned the whole thing from his prison cell.”

“Heard Bligh was hiding under his bed when the redcoats came.”

“What hope we got now the lobsters are in charge?”

And so this is the rebellion that has been brewing throughout my time in New South Wales. I’d imagined it would be the croppies who would rise up. Had imagined the Irish rebels would be the ones to turn this place on its head. But I can’t be surprised by this. Can’t be surprised it is the Rum Corps that has marched forth with guns out to take what they want. The power has been with them all along.

Much later, when the tales have become muted and all heard before, Blackwell slips into the tavern. His uniform makes him a beacon, and men and women surround him, asking questions, demanding answers. I can tell from his flushed cheeks and slightly dishevelled hair that there is liquor in him. Can tell he was among the men who had descended on Governor Bligh. Though the tavern is heaving, the patrons clear a table for him to sit at in the corner of the room. One man, who’s already told five conflicting stories, waves a hand in the air, trying to get my attention.

“A drink for the lieutenant, lass! Quick now!”

I can feel Blackwell trying to catch my eye through the crowd. I turn away, filling a glass and handing it to Kate.

“Take this to the lieutenant.”

She weaves her way through the people, returning with a sassy smile on her lips that makes me think of Maggie. “He wants to speak with you.”

“I’m busy,” I say, well aware of my own pettiness. And I sail up and down the bar, finding glasses to polish and shelves to tidy. But I am acutely aware of his presence. Unable to keep from looking at him. And finally, I give in, taking his empty glass from his table with as much nonchalance as I can muster.

He holds out a penny. “May I have another?”