One of Us Buried

by Johanna Craven

  Maggie waved a finger at me. “That’s what you want, girl. Believe me. An officer’s attention. Ain’t an easy thing to get. Most of them wouldn’t dare let themselves be seen with our kind.”

  “Shut your mouth, Maggie,” Lottie snapped. “She knows better than to go near that bastard Blackwell. Don’t you, Nell?”

  “Of course.” I couldn’t look at her.

  Two soldiers marched past the river, heading towards the barracks.

  “Fine work you’re doing, lads,” Owen sang, his words dripping with sarcasm.

  His voice made the muscles in my neck tighten.

  Sasanaigh murderer.

  Suddenly I knew without a doubt that Patrick Owen had been at Blackwell’s hut the previous night. Was he the one who had flung the rock through the window?

  “Be quiet, Patrick,” said Lottie. “We don’t need you making trouble for us. Some of us still got to answer to the lobsters.”

  Owen chuckled, looking her up and down. “Who’s making trouble?”

  Lottie looked back at him for a long second. A smile flickered in the corner of his lips. And in swanned Maggie, scooping up Owen’s arm and whisking him away from us in one smooth movement.

  “Come on now, Patrick,” she crooned. “Let’s go, aye?”

  For a moment, Owen kept his eyes on Lottie, despite Maggie’s fingers crawling up his arm. He gave her one last hint of a smile and marched away from the water.

  I stayed at the river until Lottie had disappeared into the hut of the man she was lodging with. I knew it only a matter of time before she realised I was no longer sleeping on the street. Only a matter of time before she began to ask questions.

  When I stepped into the hut, Blackwell was sitting in a chair beside the crackling fire, a worn book in his hand. The scent of woodsmoke and eucalyptus was thick in the air.

  He looked up as I entered.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I meant to be here before you returned, but…” I trailed off.

  A faint frown creased the bridge of his nose. I could tell he was debating whether or not to reprimand me. This infant colony’s idea of incarceration was hazy. Neither of us knew the rules.

  “There’s meat for soup,” he said finally, nodding to a bloodied paper package sitting on the table.

  I nodded wordlessly, thankful he had not seen fit to punish me. I unwrapped the package, and stared blankly down at the meat. I’d never cooked a thing in my life, and had little thought of how I might magic this slab of flesh into supper.

  I hacked the meat into pieces and placed it in the pot with water and some limp carrots I’d discovered at the back of the shelf. I hung the pot carefully over the flames.

  Blackwell stayed in his chair, reading. After the drunken chatter at the river, the wordlessness felt thick and heavy. I stirred slowly, eyes fixed on the pot, watching the meat darken as the liquid bubbled steadily. I was pleased to find it vaguely resembled soup.

  “It’s ready,” I ventured, when much of the colour had drained from both the meat and vegetables. “May I eat some too?”

  Blackwell put down his book and shifted his chair to face the table. “Of course.”

  I filled the bowls and set them on the table. Blackwell lowered his gaze and murmured a short prayer. I waited for him to begin eating before bringing my spoon to my lips.

  The soup was watery and more than a little bland, but I felt my effort was admirable, given my complete lack of knowledge, and what I’d had to work with. I had no doubt I was eating an animal I had never even heard of.

  Our wooden spoons tapped against the side of the bowls.

  “There’s no need to be afraid of me,” Blackwell said finally.

  “I’m not afraid of you.” My voice coming out softer than I had intended.

  “Yes you are.” He looked up at me for the first time. “Why? Because you fear I will come to you in the night?”

  I swallowed hard, the meat sticking in my throat. That was a part of it, of course. But perhaps it was unfair to have such a fear. For three nights, he had not asked anything more of me than sweeping his floors and cooking his supper. Of that I was grateful.

  “You’re here as my housekeeper,” he said evenly. “Nothing more.”

  It was the intimacy of this that frightened me, I realised then. For almost a year I had been crammed into jail cells and spinning rooms and the stinking convicts’ quarters of the Norfolk with women on every side. These sparsely worded nights when it was just he and I alone felt foreign and hard to navigate.

  But I didn’t want to fear him. I wanted to believe Lottie’s warning was misplaced. How much more manageable this place would seem if I had a safe haven to return to each night.

  A sudden burst of wind made the cloth window drum and the roof rustle loudly.

  “I ought to fix that,” said Blackwell, as a triangle of bark glided down and landed in the middle of the table.

  “Why do you not have convict workers?” I asked. “Men to tend to the garden and the like?”

  “I prefer the solitude.”

  “Then why take me in?”

  “Because you were sleeping in the street.”

  His answer made me feel strangely hollow. I didn’t want him to have taken me in merely out of pity. I wanted him to see more in me than just another wretched lag. The thought was an uncomfortable one, and I was unsure where it had come from.

  “I’m sure I’m not the only woman to have found herself sleeping in the street,” I said.

  He held my gaze. “I’m sure you’re not. But as unfortunate as that is, I don’t make a point of accommodating prisoners. I merely saw you as I passed by the church. You were clearly in need of shelter, and it seemed rather uncharitable not to offer it.”

  “I see.” I hated being on the receiving end of his charity. Hated what I had been reduced to.

  “If you are unhappy with this arrangement,” he said, “you’re free to leave anytime you wish.”

  I turned back to my bowl. I regretted raising the issue.

  Blackwell took another mouthful of soup. “It’s good,” he said, after a moment of silence.

  I managed a faint smile. Good, no, but I appreciated his kindness.

  There was something about the civility of this; this act of sitting at a supper table, however crooked and rough-hewn, however foreign and ropey the meat. I couldn’t remember the last time I had done something as refined as share a meal across the supper table.

  Blackwell sipped the soup carefully from the edge of his spoon and I heard a laugh escape me.

  “What’s so amusing?”

  “It’s absurd,” I said.

  “What is?”

  “This. Every bit of it. You, so careful with your manners; sipping your soup like you’re at a gentleman’s dinner party. And all the while we’re sitting here in this mud hut with the roof falling down, eating heaven only knows what animal.” I heard my voice get louder, bolstered by the awful liquor in my blood. “What point is there bothering with table manners when we’re up to our knees in dirt like wild things? And,” I said, dimly aware that I was making a scene, “you’ve never even thought to tell me your name. Am I worth so little I don’t even warrant an introduction?”

  He paused, his spoon hovering in mid-air. “I’m sorry,” he said. “My name’s Blackwell. Adam Blackwell.”

  I stuck a spoonful of soup in my mouth, embarrassed by my outburst. I couldn’t remember ever speaking so openly, especially not in front of a man.

  Finally, I dared to look up at him. And for a second it was as though the protective shell he hid behind had fallen away. I saw a flicker of a smile on his lips, a hint of warmth in his eyes. It caught me by surprise and I looked away hurriedly.

  My eyes drifted to the book he had left on the edge of the table. “The Vicar of Wakefield was one of my father’s favourites,” I garbled, trying to take the conversation back to less hysterical grounds.

  “You read?” he asked. There was a hint of surprise in his voi
ce.

  I nodded.

  “If you wish,” he said, “you may take it once I’ve finished. I know books are few and far between in this place.”

  His kindness emboldened me. “Why are you here?”

  “Duty. Why else?”

  “Well.” I put down my spoon. “In London they used to say this place was an officer’s dream. Land grants from the governor. Free labour. The freedom to choose a woman like we’re fruit to be picked from a tree.”

  Blackwell raised his eyebrows.

  “Isn’t that why we were sent here?” I asked. “To keep all the lonely men company? To populate this place?”

  He looked at me squarely. “You were sent here because you committed a crime.”

  I turned back at my soup. Found a chunk of gristle inside it. I scooped it out of the bowl and sat it on the table.

  “This place could be better for you than England,” Blackwell said.

  I frowned. What did he know of my life in England? Who was he to make such judgments? I supposed he looked at me as the same as all the others. A street rat crawled from the Whitechapel slums. It was a fair assumption, I supposed. I’d heard all the stories, bleated out by those poor sorry girls I’d been crammed onto the Norfolk with.

  A loaf of bread to feed my boys.

  A cloak to keep out the snow.

  Tales of pity.

  But Blackwell knew I was a reader. And how many of those poor sorry girls from the slums had their letters? Perhaps my attempts to disguise my polished upbringing had been more successful than I’d believed.

  Let him believe I too was tale of pity. Bread pocketed from the market. A stolen cloak wrapped around my shoulders.

  That was a far simpler story.

  CHAPTER SIX

  “Here,” said Lottie as I made my way down the stairs into the jail yard behind the factory. She held out a small, misshapen pillow.

  “What’s this?” I sat beside her and Hannah on the patchy grass, a cannikin of lukewarm tea in my hand. The sun had vanished behind a cloud just in time for our afternoon break.

  “Took it from old Bert’s bed when he weren’t looking,” said Lottie. “Thought you could use it. Might make you a little more comfortable.”

  I shook my head, feeling a stab of guilt. After two weeks beneath Blackwell’s roof, I’d still not found the courage to tell Lottie I was no longer sleeping on the street. “I couldn’t.”

  She whacked me on the arm with it, making tea slop down the front of my dress. “Would you just take it, you madwoman? Bert won’t even notice it’s gone.”

  Maggie looked down at us from where she stood leaning against the wall of the jail. “Take it, Nell. She’s right; old Bert’s as blind as a bat. Everyone knows it.”

  “It’s true,” said Hannah, sipping her tea. “I saw him in the tavern last week asking some scrawny lobster for a dance.” She winked at me. “The lad was quite pretty and all, but Bert would’ve got a right shock when he got him home.”

  Maggie laughed. “Look on the bright side, Lottie. Least he’s too old and decrepit to get a child on you. When was the last time he managed to get it up?”

  Lottie snorted. “Don’t stop him from trying.”

  Maggie lifted her cannikin in a mock toast. “Good of you to take him off our hands, girl. You’re to be applauded.”

  Lottie gave her a thin smile. “Ought to say the same to you. Must be hard keeping Patrick Owen under control with those wandering eyes of his.”

  “I will take the pillow,” I said suddenly, desperate to steer the conversation away from their friction over Owen. “You’re right, I’ll be much more comfortable.”

  Lottie turned away from Maggie and tossed the pillow into my lap.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  She flashed me a smile. “Of course. It’s like I said, we look out for each other here.”

  I didn’t reply. I wondered if that still held true where Patrick Owen was concerned.

  With our break over, I went back upstairs to the carding machine, sitting on Lottie’s pillow to keep it from the filthy floor. One day soon, I would tell her the truth. Return the pillow to her and admit I made Lieutenant Blackwell’s supper each night. She would be angry, no doubt, at both my lies and my foolishness. Would likely speak to me in the same brusque tone she reserved for Maggie. I hated the prospect of that coldness. We look out for each other – and with each day I saw just how important that sisterhood was. With too much ease, the horrors of the factory were becoming commonplace – the settler taking a woman up against the factory wall, the girl sent back to the spinning wheels to birth her overseer’s child. Talk of what the men did to their lodgers in the night. How were we to survive this place without another to lean on?

  Footsteps thudded up the stairs, two male convicts appearing in the warehouse, guarded by a marine. One of the men was a familiar face; most mornings when I returned to the factory he’d be gallivanting around the place with a kiss for any woman who’d let him near. He grinned at the young girl sitting closest to the door. Picked up one of the sacks of cloth that sat in the corner waiting to be taken to the government stores. He murmured to her in words I couldn’t hear over the thudding of the looms. But the thump of the soldier’s rifle I did hear, as it struck the man on the back of the skull. He pitched forward, dropping the sack and spitting out a line of cursing.

  “Keep your mouth shut and do your job,” the soldier barked. I turned my eyes away hurriedly. Found myself turning the handle of the carding machine faster, in time with my racing heart.

  Footsteps again, as the marine and the convicts disappeared. My tea sat heavily in my stomach. I could hear the thud of the rifle blow echoing in my ears. I’d never known of a place in which the balance of power was so one-sided.

  The thought made me turn the wheel faster, as though by throwing my energy into the carding machine, I might let some of it loose from my body. I fed the fleece into the whirring drums, eyes glazing over.

  I thought of Blackwell. I’d not seen the same brutality inside him, but perhaps it was naïve to assume it wasn’t there. I had made an active decision not to fear him. An active decision to trust him. But I knew there was every chance it might turn out to be a foolish choice. The men in red coats literally held our lives in their hands. Perhaps it was wiser to fear the hand that wielded the power. Grow too close and he could burn me alive.

  I felt a sudden burst of pain in my fingertips. Heard myself cry out. And then a hand on my arm, yanking me backwards before my fingers were drawn into the teeth of the carding drum.

  I toppled from my stool, landing heavily on the floor beside Maggie. I gasped for breath, gripping my stinging fingers with my other hand. Maggie put a hand to my shoulder.

  “Careful, girl,” she said, her face close to mine. “Careful. Got to keep your mind on the job.”

  I tried to reply, but my mouth just hung open. I opened my palm to see a rivulet of blood trickling down my fingers. Pain was pulsing through my hand, but I knew it could have been infinitely worse. I nodded at Maggie, unable to form words.

  She got to her feet, picking up Lottie’s pillow from where it had fallen beside me. She brushed the muck from the bottom and sat it back on my stool. Then she reached down and offered me a hand.

  “Thank you,” I murmured. And as I climbed shakily to my feet, my throbbing hand wrapped around hers, I couldn’t help but stare at the chain of bruises reaching up her arm.

  *

  “Are you all right, Eleanor?” Blackwell asked as he came into the hut that night. I was rattling around the place, in an attempt to make supper, unable to keep from trembling. All I could think about was what would have happened had Maggie not yanked me back from the carding machine. I reached for the frying pan and sent it crashing onto the floor.

  I picked it up hurriedly and slapped a slab of meat into it. “I’m fine.”

  Blackwell hung up his jacket. “Has something happened?”

  I shook my head, unwilling to speak o
f it. Thinking of my near accident made me feel as fragile as a bird. And fragility was something I could not afford to show in this place.

  “Nothing happened.” I took the frying pan to the hearth and sat it over the embers. I knelt on the floor and stared into it, watching the edges of the meat darken. The smell of the cooking flesh made my stomach turn.

  I heard Blackwell at the washbin and kept my eyes fixed to the pan. For not the first time since I’d come to his hut, I was struck by the utter impropriety of our situation; of having a man who was not my husband so close upon me, washing, dressing, sleeping, breathing. In the fortnight we’d been sharing the hut, we’d fallen into an uneasy, wordless arrangement in which I’d dress beneath my blankets, and disappear into the garden while he washed and clothed himself each morning. In which he’d turn his back while I lifted my stockings and laced my stays.

  On more than one occasion, the forced intimacy of the thing had felt too much. I’d thought to leave, to give him back the space he had so generously carved out for me. But each time, I arrived at the same conclusion. Without that scrap of space, I had not a single place to go.

  I pressed the wooden spatula into the meat, watching as the juices ran clear. I carried the pan to the table and slid its contents onto Blackwell’s plate. He looked down at the single slab of meat.

  “You’re not eating?”

  I set the pan on the floor beside the door to cool. My bruised fingers throbbed in time with my heart.

  “I’m not hungry.” I took the bread from the shelf and sat it on the table for Blackwell. He stared up at me, a faint frown creasing the bridge of his nose. And that look, what was that? Something so close to concern that a part of me wanted to speak, to tell him of the foolish accident that had left me so rattled. But when I heard the words in my head, they sounded so petty, so inconsequential. Certainly nothing that would matter to a marine lieutenant. Just a thing that would reveal the delicacy I was trying so hard to outgrow. I nudged the bread towards him. “Here. It’s still quite fresh.”