One of Us Buried

by Johanna Craven

Blackwell held my gaze for a long second, then slid around on his stool and reached for the rum bottle on the shelf. He filled a tin cup and placed it on the edge of the table.

  “Drink it. It’s quite dreadful, but it does settle the nerves somewhat.”

  I took the liquor and tossed it back, gasping as it seared my throat. I closed my eyes, feeling the drink slide through me, warming my insides and yes, somehow, faintly easing the nerves that were rattling through my body. A dangerous thing, I knew well, to find a little peace at liquor stills of the Rum Corps.

  When Blackwell was asleep, I pulled on my boots and slipped out of the hut. My mind and body were exhausted, but my thoughts were racing. I knew sleep was still hours away.

  The air was cold and clean; a silver cloud of breath appearing in front of me as I strode away from the hut. Laughter from the main street hung in the air, and I turned towards the church to avoid the throng of men and women outside the tavern. I followed the curve of the river as it snaked through the trees, needing the stillness, the calming sigh of the water.

  In the pale moonlight, I recognised Maggie’s figure leaning against the railings of the bridge. She looked up as I approached.

  “Don’t often see you out at night,” she said. She brought a clay pipe to her lips and blew a line of smoke upwards.

  I stepped onto the bridge and stood beside her at the railing. In the darkness the water was hidden, but I could hear it churning beneath us.

  “Couldn’t sleep,” I told her.

  Maggie held the pipe out to me. I shook my head.

  She nodded in the direction I had come. “That Blackwell’s hut?”

  I wrapped my arms around myself. Said nothing.

  Maggie gave me a short smile. “Don’t worry. I won’t tell Lottie old Bert’s pillow is snuggled up next to her favourite officer.”

  I let out my breath. “I feel dreadful. I shouldn’t have taken it.”

  “It’s just a pillow.”

  “It’s not just a pillow. It’s the principle of the thing. I’ve not told her the truth.”

  Maggie lifted the pipe. “You think too much. That’s why you got yourself in trouble today.”

  I lowered my eyes. I knew she was right. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell anyone about… my sleeping arrangements,” I managed.

  She chuckled. “If I were curled up beside an officer in the night, I’d be letting everyone know.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “I’m not curled up beside him.”

  Maggie shrugged. “Ain’t nothing to be ashamed of.”

  “How can you say that?” Necessity or not, sleeping beside a man in the night made me feel as though I’d abandoned every scrap of my morality.

  “It’s smart,” said Maggie. “Getting in with an officer. You do him a few favours and maybe he’ll do the same for you. Make your time here a little easier.”

  “He’s not asked for any favours. He says taking me in was an act of charity.”

  Maggie gave a short laugh. “It’s coming. You just watch. This ain’t a place of charity. There’s no room for that here. Even men like Blackwell, they’re just trying to find a way to survive in this wilderness.”

  I shook my head. “That’s not true. This place might be about survival for us, but it’s not for the men who carry the rifles.”

  She shrugged. “Maybe you’d be surprised.” An echo of breaking glass sounded from the street, followed by wild laughter. Maggie looked back towards the tavern. “Fucking animals.”

  “Is Owen in the tavern?” I asked.

  She nodded. “The man’s a right bastard when he’s in his cups. I managed to get out of there when he was looking the other way. I’ll pay for it later though, I’m sure.”

  I thought of the mottled bruising on Maggie’s arms. Felt rather certain Patrick Owen was a bastard whether he was in his cups or not.

  “Would you marry him?” I asked. “For a ticket of leave, like Sally Quinn got?”

  “What other hope do I have? They ain’t letting me out of this place til I’m dead.”

  My lips parted. “You’re here for life?”

  Maggie blew out a line of smoke. “Made one or two bad decisions in my time.”

  I gave her a small smile. “I know the feeling.”

  “Headed up a thieving ring back in London,” she said. “Thought Lottie would have told you. The other girls ain’t shy to remind me I’m the only lifer in the factory.”

  My fingers curled around the worn wooden rail of the bridge. Maggie was not the only lifer in the factory, but I couldn’t bring myself to tell her. Couldn’t admit to the shame of it. Speaking of it aloud was too brutal.

  Instead, I asked, “How long have you been here?”

  “Coming up on ten years. I were cleaning a man’s house at first, til the old bastard turned over the perch.”

  I stared downwards, watching ripples emerge from the darkness. Who would I be after a decade in this place? Would I be desperate enough to chase a man like Patrick Owen? Seek some semblance of a future in the bed of any man who could offer it? This, I told myself, as my stomach turned over with dread, was why I could only bear to consider the moment I had before me. I felt a sudden, desperate need to return to Blackwell’s hut.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Parramatta was still covered in golden dawn light as I made my way towards the factory. My boots sank into the mud as I walked. Cold wind whipped my hair against my cheeks and made my skirts dance around the top of my boots. Autumn was slowly becoming winter, though the trees were stubbornly green.

  I stopped walking suddenly, my eyes drawn to the scrub on the side of the road. What had made me look? And as I realised what I was seeing, my breath caught in my throat.

  I’d seen death before, of course. Seen my father, uncles, aunts laid out lifeless on the mourning table. But it was the unexpectedness of this that caused heat to wash over me. The presence of a body where a body should not have been. A white hand curled beneath the undergrowth; a thin wrist, a twisted arm, a motionless figure in a blue and white striped dress.

  I stumbled backwards, my legs weakening. I felt as though the world was tilting around me. I lurched into the main street, whirling around in search of someone to tell. Felt a hand on my elbow.

  “What’s happened, Nell?” asked Hannah. “What’s wrong?”

  “A body,” I managed. “A woman.” I had trouble forming the words.

  “Where?”

  I led her back to the white hand in the bushes. Bolstered by Hannah’s company, I dared to look a little closer. The woman lay on her side among the undergrowth, her feet bare and her skirts tangled around her legs. I couldn’t see her face, just the bundle of dark hair at her neck.

  Hannah edged forward and touched the woman’s shoulder. The body rolled over. I pressed a hand over my mouth to stifle my cry of shock. Maggie Abbott’s blank eyes stared up into the trees. Her neck was dappled with red marks and bruising, her skin deathly pale against the darkness of her hair.

  I swallowed a violent wall of sickness.

  I realised we were not alone. People were gathering, clustered on the side of the road, trying for a look.

  I felt a hand around my wrist. Lottie appeared beside me and stood with her shoulder pressed against mine, not releasing her grip on my forearm.

  I stared at the bruises on Maggie’s neck. “She was murdered,” I said, more to myself than anyone else. My words seemed to ripple through the crowd.

  She was murdered.

  Lottie pulled me into her arms and squeezed tightly. And at last, here were the redcoats, elbowing their way towards the body. Blackwell was among them, his eyes skimming over me without showing a hint of recognition.

  “Who found the body?” asked one of the soldiers.

  “I did.”

  “This was how you found it?”

  Her, I tried to say, but the word caught in my throat. I tried to swallow. “Yes,” I managed. “I mean, no. She was on her side. We turned her to see w
ho it was.” I wrapped my arms around myself. “She was murdered,” I said again.

  Blackwell glanced at me then back at Maggie’s body. “Escort the women to the factory,” he told the soldiers. “And take the body to the hospital.”

  And then we were back in the factory, spinning yarn as though nothing at all had happened. I sat dazedly on my stool and stared into the spokes of the motionless spinning wheel. The chalky smell of the fire thickened the air, making it hard to breathe. I felt as though I might fall at any moment. Lottie reached out and squeezed my hand. I squeezed back, grateful for her nearness.

  Despite the wall of nervous chatter that filled the factory, I was acutely aware of Maggie’s absence. The place felt empty without her. Quieter somehow, despite the constant thud and groan of the looms and carding drums. Each time I closed my eyes, I saw her blank face staring into mine.

  The superintendent clipped me over the shoulder, barking about my laziness. I drew in my breath, trying to stop the tremor in my hands. I felt moments away from another accident. And today Maggie wasn’t here to save me.

  I turned to Lottie. “She was lodging with Patrick Owen,” I said, though I knew she didn’t need reminding.

  For a moment, she didn’t speak. “That doesn’t mean anything.” Her voice was thin.

  I glared at her. Why was she defending him?

  But in the back of my mind, I knew. She was defending him because there was a part of her that desperately hoped Maggie had not died with Owen’s hands around her neck. That her body had not been so carelessly tossed into the scrub by one of the men we drank at the river with. There was a part of me that was hoping the same thing. But what was the alternative? I had seen the bruising on her neck. Had seen the bruising on her forearms the day she had saved me from crushing my hand in the carding machine. Still, I told myself, this was a wild land. Perhaps it was the doing of the savages, or some nameless creature that lived out there in the bush.

  Maggie was dead, yes, but the horror of it was more manageable if she had not died at the hands of someone within the settlement.

  Lottie turned away from me, pedalling rapidly in a sign our conversation was over.

  I thought of Maggie’s body. Hoped she was being treated with a little respect. I knew the hospital was without a mortuary; had heard tales of bodies being discarded in the passageways. Was she being examined? Or did the Rum Corps see no point?

  We were precious, yes, us women at the spinning wheels. But so achingly replaceable. One of us buried would be replaced by another the moment the next ship came in.

  A sense of unease hung thick in the air as we pedalled and spun. Restless murmuring rippled through the room. A baby began to shriek, the sound making the muscles in my neck tense.

  Heads turned as heavy footsteps thudded up the stairs. Blackwell and one of the enlisted men appeared in the doorway of the warehouse. They made their way towards the superintendent.

  One of the women at the spinning wheels leapt to her feet and strode towards the soldiers. “What you going to do about this then? Are you going to catch the bastard what done this to Maggie?”

  “There’ll be an investigation in due course,” Blackwell said shortly.

  “An investigation?” Hannah cried. “What need do you have for an investigation? Everyone knows it were Patrick Owen that killed her!” She stood abruptly, knocking over her stool. “Whatever you may think of us, we ain’t bloody fools.”

  The younger soldier strode towards her. “Sit down and shut your mouth.” He reached for Hannah’s arm, but she pulled away violently. He grabbed her arms and forced her downwards, pinning her to the ground. Hannah screeched and kicked against him. And at once, the women were on their feet, crowding around her, trying to tear the soldier away. Another baby joined in the wailing. Children scrambled towards their mothers. I stood as well. Somehow, staying in my seat and obeying orders felt like a slight on Maggie. A slight on Hannah.

  Blackwell dashed towards the fight.

  I saw Lottie’s eyes fall to him. Saw the hatred, the anger. And I saw her grab her stool by the legs and swing.

  I had no thought of what I was doing. I was only aware of my body pitching instinctively towards Lottie, shoving her away from the lieutenant. And then of shock jolting through me as the full force of the wooden stool struck me instead.

  It took a moment for the pain to hit, but when it did, it seared through my temple and brought me to my knees. Blood ran into my eye.

  “Jesus, Nell,” Lottie cried, crouching beside me and gripping my shoulder. “What in hell are you doing?” She shrieked as she was yanked to her feet by the superintendent.

  I felt a hand around the top of my arm, helping me stand. Blackwell’s imposing figure loomed over me.

  “Get your hands off her, you corrupt bastard!” Lottie kicked against the superintendent. “Do you hear me?”

  Blackwell handed me over to the other soldier. “Take her out to the yard. And find something to stop the bleeding.”

  I stumbled dizzily down the stairs, the soldier’s hand clamped to my elbow. I swiped at the blood with the hem of my apron. It kept spilling from the gash in my forehead, soaking through the fabric and staining the skin on my wrist. The shouting from the factory grew steadily softer. The soldier led me out to the jail yard and planted me on the narrow wooden bench beside the door. Beads of blood slid from my chin, turning black in the striped flannel of my skirts. The soldier produced a handkerchief from his pocket and pressed it hard against the cut above my eye. Pain drummed steadily behind my forehead.

  Blackwell appeared suddenly in the doorway, his footsteps crunching across the stone path. I was surprised to see him.

  “Leave us,” he told the soldier. “I need to speak with her about the incident.” He took the bloodied handkerchief and knelt in front of me. He pressed it back against my forehead, then looked down at the crimson mess of my skirts. “Head wounds always bleed heavily,” he said. “But it isn’t deep. It looks worse than it is.”

  I gripped the edges of the bench, my teeth clenched against the ache of it.

  Though his eyes were level with mine, Blackwell somehow managed not to look at me. Did he know, I wondered, that it was Lottie who had done this? Had he seen me step in front of her flying stool? Or had it all happened so quickly he had no thought of it?

  I was glad he didn’t ask for an explanation. I would not have been able to give it.

  He lifted my hand and brought it to the handkerchief, gesturing for me to hold it in place. Then he disappeared into the jail for a moment, returning with a small bowl of water and a clean cloth.

  He knelt opposite me again, dragging the cloth through the thin grey puddle at the bottom of the basin. Dabbed gently at the jewels of dried blood I could feel forming at my cheekbones.

  “Maggie was murdered,” I said. It wasn’t fresh information to him, of course. I just needed him to know that I knew.

  Blackwell’s hand tightened around the cloth. Water drizzled onto the path and disappeared into the earth. “Yes. I’m sorry.”

  Sorry for what, I wondered?

  I said, “It was Patrick Owen.”

  Blackwell didn’t reply. Just slid the damp cloth over the side of my neck.

  I waited for his questions, his interrogation. Wasn’t that why he had marched down from the factory after me? I had been the one to find the body.

  But there were no questions. Just the rhythmic plinking as the water dripped from the cloth back into the basin. A crow glided across the jail yard and perched on top of the stair rail.

  “Has it stopped bleeding?” I asked.

  “Almost.”

  I got unsteadily to my feet, turning to face my reflection in the narrow window behind us. Lottie’s attack had left a congealing red stripe above my eyebrow, but the cut was not as enormous as I had imagined it might be. The side of my eye was already cloudy with bruising.

  I squinted at my reflection. It was the first time I’d dared to examine myself sinc
e I’d arrived in Parramatta. My hair hung in lank, coppery snarls, damp and darkened around my face. My cheeks were hollow, pink from the sun. But it was my eyes that caused my loud intake of breath. They were brighter and fiercer than I could ever remember; the flat grey planes of them alight with flecks of blue. There was my anger, my fear, my frustration. There was four shillings, and I have shelter and who found the body?

  New South Wales had left a blaze inside me.

  “I ought to go back upstairs,” I said, “before the superintendent has me in the cells with Lottie and Hannah.”

  “You’re to come with me to the courthouse,” said Blackwell. “The magistrate wishes to speak to the person who found the body.”

  “So you were telling the truth. When you said there would be an investigation.”

  He looked me in the eye for the first time. “Why would you doubt that?”

  I didn’t answer.

  We walked out of the jail towards the courthouse without speaking. I felt a faint flicker of nerves. The last time I’d been before a magistrate, I’d been transported upon the seas.

  A few yards from the front door, Blackwell stopped walking. He looked down at me, eyes fixed to the cut streaking my forehead. “Eleanor,” he said, his voice low, “you’re not to put yourself in danger for me again. I don’t require protecting.”

  He strode up the steps to the front door before I had a chance to respond.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I followed Blackwell into the courthouse, and down a long stone corridor with doors on either side. Our footsteps echoed in the stillness. He stopped at the door at the end of the passage and knocked loudly.

  “Enter.”

  Blackwell opened the door to a small meeting room. A table took up most of the space, wooden chairs on both sides. White light filtered in from a window high on the wall. Inside, I could see the round-shouldered figure of Reverend Marsden, dressed in his customary black, along with two soldiers.

  “Eleanor Marling, Reverend,” said Blackwell. “She’s the one who found the body.”