One of Us Buried

by Johanna Craven

  I sidled up to the table with what, in my drunken state, I assumed was an alluring strut. I peered down at the letter, not even pretending to be discreet.

  ‘Dear Father,’ it read.

  “What are you doing?” I asked stupidly.

  “Writing to my father.” His sleeves were rolled up against the heat, his shirt open at the neck. I could see the sparse curls of hair at the top of his chest.

  I leant over his shoulder to look at the letter.

  ‘Governor Bligh has earned himself no favour with his order to destroy the liquor stills. The colony is still so short of currency – can he truly be against trading liquor for a sack of grain? It galls me that a naval officer might stride into this place and interfere with military order.’

  I said, “There’s a party going on.”

  “Yes,” said Blackwell, his quill hovering above the page, “I can smell it on you.” Ink dripped from the edge of the nib and splattered onto his letter. Insects flickered around the lamp.

  “You ought to come,” I told him. “It ain’t right to be alone at Christmas.” Sometimes the drink made me enunciate like a queen. Other times, I spoke as though I’d been hauled out of Whitechapel with a bottle of gin in my hand. “The other soldiers are there,” I said. “Ensign Cooper and that one with the nose hair.”

  A smile played on the edge of Blackwell’s lips. He tilted his head, considering me. He leant back in his chair, his arm brushing against my hip. “Go back to the party, Eleanor,” he said after a moment. He dipped his quill back in the ink and continued writing, without looking at me again.

  Dejectedly, I strode back towards the river.

  “Where d’you go?” Lottie drawled when I returned. I was glad she had dislodged herself from Owen’s claws.

  “Just a walk is all.” I slid my hand around her arm. “Let’s have another drink.”

  “Fine idea,” she said, looking around for someone with a bottle for us to steal.

  I needed it. Needed to forget my childhood Christmases and the sight of Owen with his arm around Lottie. Needed to drown the emptiness that had come when Blackwell had sent me away.

  Dan Brady was strumming a fiddle like a lute. He spoke to Lottie in Irish, though his eyes were fixed on me. Lottie looped her arm through mine. “You leave her alone now, Dan,” she said in overenunciated English. “She’s all right. Aren’t you, Nell?”

  Brady’s eyes cut into me.

  “Watch yourself, Johnny,” Hannah hollered to some farmhand who was wading shirtless into the river. “Them eels will get you and pull you all the way to China.”

  I looked past her at the towering figure of Blackwell striding towards the river. I felt a smile on my lips. He went to the cluster of soldiers on one side of the fire. If he was going to stay with his own kind all night, so be it. I was just glad he was out of the hut. Glad he’d finished that dizzyingly dull letter.

  Lottie followed my gaze. She looked back at me with fire in her eyes. I ignored her. What place did she have being angry at my seeking out Blackwell when she was swanning around the place on Patrick Owen’s arm?

  I sauntered over to the soldiers with a bottle in my hand. I recognised one of the men who had sent Owen on his way the day he had attacked Blackwell. Even out of their uniforms, the Rum Corps exuded authority. One of the officers, an older man with a thick grey moustache, looked me up and down. Disapproval on his face, but something else beneath. I had already watched several of the enlisted men disappear into the bushes with factory lags attached to them.

  Blackwell was on his feet before the man with the moustache could get his pipe out of his mouth.

  “I learned the Fairy Reel,” I announced. “I’m going to teach you.”

  A faint smile passed over his face. “No you’re not.”

  I held out the rum bottle. “This will change your mind.”

  Blackwell laughed. His face lightened, giving him a sudden and unexpected beauty. If he was irritated at my storming his side of the party he didn’t show it. He took a gulp of rum, his nose crinkling in distaste.

  “That’s awful,” he said.

  “Bought it for a sack of grain,” I told him. “Though Governor Bligh didn’t like it.”

  He gave a short chuckle. “I see you managed an eyeful of my letter.”

  “Well,” I said, “we must make a stand against those who dare interfere with military order.”

  He failed to hold back a smile.

  I took the bottle, my fingers grazing his. “The Fairy Reel?” I asked. I was acting inappropriately; a part of me was well aware. I was also well aware that I’d never been so drunk in my entire life. It was a blissful, liberating feeling.

  “No,” he laughed. “Still no Fairy Reel.” He nodded to where Hannah and Lottie were chatting by the edge of the water, heads bent towards each other, their brows creased in deep concentration. “Looks as though they’re solving all the colony’s ills. Perhaps you ought to join them.”

  I nodded, knowing even in my drunken state it was his polite way of telling me to disappear.

  Blackwell returned to the marines, and I went and sat with Lottie and Hannah. As I’d guessed, the only thing they were solving was who’d drunk more of the liquor. The party was going to pot quickly. Bodies were dozing around the fire, upturned bottles scattered across the riverbank. Hannah disappeared into the trees with some mud-coated scrub, and Lottie made her way to the remnants of the bonfire, hands all over Patrick Owen. Sounds of pleasure drifted out from between the trees.

  The first time I had heard such a thing on the Norfolk, I had been horrified. I’d been taught that my wifely duties were never to be spoken of, an act that took place behind locked doors. I had always been silent in the bedroom out of fear the staff might hear. I couldn’t bear the thought of anyone knowing what we were doing.

  But I had come to understand it was different here. For the women, such a thing was not a duty, but an act of survival. And it didn’t matter who witnessed it.

  Sitting alone on the log, I felt a tug of loneliness. And in spite of everything I knew was decent and right, I found myself wishing I were one of those women sitting beside the river with a man’s arms around her. I longed to forget myself, to forget where we were, and what my life entailed now. Until the morning at least.

  A distant roll of thunder and the air seemed to grow thicker.

  I felt the log shift beside me as someone took the place left empty by Hannah. The man’s words were garbled. But his hand on my knee left no doubt as to his intentions.

  I let that hand move up my thigh. Let him bend over and kiss my neck. Let myself sink into the warmth of another’s touch. I could let it go no further, of course, but in that fleeting moment, I relished the company.

  “Fetch me a drink,” I said.

  And he got to his feet unsteadily, giving me a smile. I felt a tangled mix of disgust and desire. And a tug of guilt at having let him think I was offering more than I was. I watched him saunter over to the bottles that sat ridiculously close to the bonfire.

  “Don’t.” A voice close to my ear. “He’s not a good man.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, my words dying in my throat when I turned my head and saw Blackwell’s eyes inches from mine.

  I watched him for a moment, trying to make sense of what I was feeling. Anger at his intrusion? Or flattery? The liquor was tangling my thoughts.

  “Why do you care who I spend my time with?” I asked.

  “I just don’t want to see you get yourself in trouble.”

  “Why are you looking out for me?”

  He frowned slightly. “Why do you need to ask that?”

  Because I was lulling myself into the belief I might be worth caring for. That the safety of a convict woman might matter to a lieutenant in the Rum Corps. And I knew they were dangerous beliefs.

  Lottie turned back from the bonfire and her eyes met Blackwell’s. Then she glared at me. I looked away.

  Thunder rumbled again, closer this t
ime. Raindrops the size of marbles began to pelt the dry earth, sending wisps of steam spiralling up from the fire. With the arrival of the rain, the oppressive heat vanished, and I drew down a long breath, lifting my face to the sky.

  My suitor returned with a fresh bottle, confusion wrinkling his face when he saw me with Blackwell. I could tell he was trying to remember which woman he’d been after.

  Blackwell stood suddenly, as though he had only just become aware of how close he was to me. “I’m going back to the hut,” he said.

  He began to walk. For a moment, I sat motionless, unsure if his words had been an invitation to join him. He glanced back over his shoulder and I got to my feet. Hurried after him.

  He opened the door and lit the lamp. His letter and inkpot were still spread out across the table.

  I sank to the ground, not quite making it to my sleeping pallet. The earthen floor felt soft beneath me. My skirts and boots were splattered with mud.

  Blackwell sat beside me on the floor, his long legs stretched out in front of him and his knee knocking against mine.

  “Your letter,” I said. “It’s very boring.”

  He chuckled. “Yes, I know. My father is not the most vibrant of men. I’m playing to my audience.” I could smell the liquor on his breath.

  I made some sort of response, halfway between an acknowledgement and a groan. I rolled onto my side, my back to him. I closed my eyes against the violent tilting of the world.

  “You shouldn’t spend your time with men like that,” he said after a long silence.

  I didn’t answer at once. His comment felt intrusive. Who was he to demand such things? Who was he to care?

  I opened my eyes a crack, watching the flame dance inside the lamp. “Sometimes this place just feels overwhelmingly lonely,” I said finally.

  “Yes,” said Blackwell. “It does.” And I felt his body curl around mine, his big hand gripping my wrist as water drizzled in from the roof and put the candle out.

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  “The poor girl who yields to a misplaced passion, no matter how her ruin has been effected … is immediately fallen. She has passed the threshold over which there is no return.”

  Thomas Beggs

  An Inquiry into the Extent and Causes of Juvenile Depravity

  1849

  On the twelfth night, the officers gathered at Government House for a celebratory dinner. I watched Blackwell peer into the shaving mirror and glide his razor along his cheeks.

  He had been distant since Christmas night. I could tell he regretted the way he had acted. But which part of it, I wondered? His drunkenness? Or the fact he had let himself get close to me?

  The morning after Christmas, I’d woken alone on the floor beside the hearth. Blackwell had been back on his sleeping pallet on the other side of the hut. No doubt when the liquor had faded he had seen the gross impropriety of curling up beside me in the night. I had seen it too, of course. But it had not felt like impropriety at the time. It had felt far too natural. Far too easy. A thing both of us had needed.

  After he left for Government House, I sat at the table staring into the spluttering candle. I was exhausted, having sat hunched over the carding machine all day, but I felt too alert to sleep.

  I took Blackwell’s shirt from the back of the chair, where I had hung it for mending. I had little doubt he was hacking at his hems on purpose. A reason to put coins in my hands and keep me from selling my body.

  Threading a needle by candlelight, I stitched the torn hem carefully, the rough linen warm in my hands. The Parramatta cloth was thick and coarse. I wondered how many of Blackwell’s shirts had been woven by my own hands. His musky scent infused the linen. Made me feel close to him. Closer than I, as a mere convict woman, ought to be.

  These thoughts felt sinful in so many ways. There was Sophia, of course, and the ghost of Jonathan, not long enough in his grave for me to be thinking of another man.

  It was improper, my governess had taught me, for a lady to feel desire. Only a loose woman, a harlot, a concubine, would let her heart quicken in the presence of a man.

  There was regret in me that I had let Blackwell see my desire. I knew as a military man, he was expected to look down on a factory lass like me. To see me as the loose woman the female register painted me as. But I knew my attraction was not one-sided. On Christmas night, while rain pelted the roof, I had felt his body slide closer to mine. Felt the warmth of his hand against my bare forearm. That night, as I had laid my cards on the table, Blackwell had also laid his.

  I finished the sewing, folding the mended shirt and placing it on the end of his sleeping pallet. I undressed and blew out the lamp, curling up on my blanket beside the unlit hearth. The air was thick and humid, frogs clicking loudly in the river.

  Voices came towards the hut, along with a spear of light. I sighed inwardly, wondering what gift Owen and the other rebels had for the lieutenant this evening. I glanced across the hut to where the rifle was leaning against the wall. If I burst out the door and threatened the rebels with it, would they would be afraid? I smiled wryly to myself. Do such a thing and I’d find myself celebrating the twelfth night back in solitary confinement.

  I grabbed my shawl and threw it over my shoulders, yanking open the door to confront them. “Get the hell out of here,” I hissed. Owen and Brady charged towards me. I stumbled back into the hut. Felt hands around the tops of my arms. I thrashed against them. “Get your damn hands off me!”

  “You’re coming with us,” said Owen. “It’s important.”

  My heart thundered, Maggie Abbott’s blank stare flashing through my mind. I tried to scream, but Owen clamped a hand over my mouth before the sound could form.

  “Keep your bloody mouth shut. We can’t have that lobster of yours coming running.”

  They yanked me back towards the door. “My dress,” I spluttered. “And my boots.” If I was going to be found in the undergrowth like Maggie, I at least wanted to have a little decency about me.

  After a moment, Owen nodded reluctantly. He and Brady released their grip. I yanked my dress on over my head. As I bent to lace my boots, I felt a pang of regret. If I were found with my dress and boots on, it would look as though I had left the hut on my own accord.

  But it was too late. Owen’s hand was back around the top of my arm and I was being marched out towards the river.

  “What’s this about?” I demanded. Fear lurched inside me. Was I to be the next body found in the scrub? Did the croppies still believe me responsible for turning Owen over to the authorities? Or had they some twisted idea that they could punish Blackwell by harming me?

  When we reached the river, I found Lottie pacing back and forth across the bank, arms wrapped around herself. Wind was rippling the surface of the water.

  “Lottie?” I demanded, shaking myself free of Owen and Brady’s grip. “You knew about this?”

  “I’m sorry, Nell,” she said. “I told them to bring you here. There are things you ought to know. Things between you and Blackwell have gone too far.”

  “What do you mean ‘things between me and Blackwell’?”

  Lottie sighed. “Come on, Nell. I’m no fool. We all saw the two of you together on Christmas night. Breathing on each other’s necks. You mean to tell me there’s nothing between you?”

  “I clean the lieutenant’s house,” I snapped. “Nothing more.”

  Lottie took my arm and led me towards the log. She sat, tugging me down beside her.

  “Are you truly warning me away from Blackwell?” I hissed. “When you’re spending your time around Patrick Owen? He terrified me, charging into the hut like that! I thought I was going to end up like Maggie!” I knew Owen could hear me. I didn’t care.

  “I’m sorry,” said Lottie. “I didn’t mean for you to be afraid.”

  “And what exactly did you imagine I might feel?” I glared at her, then looked up at Owen and Brady. “What’s this all about?”

  Lottie looked up at the two men. />
  “You ever heard of Castle Hill?” asked Brady.

  I felt the muscles in my neck tense. “Yes,” I said tersely. “I know of the uprising.” I couldn’t help feeling a tiny flicker of self-satisfaction. The men had clearly been hoping to catch me unaware. I got to my feet, needing to face them. I was eye-to-eye with Owen, but Brady still towered over me.

  “He told you then?” said Owen. “The things he did?”

  My silence brought a smirk to his face.

  “Thought not.” He took a step closer, his breath hot and stale against my nose. I wrapped my arms around myself tightly.

  “That lieutenant of yours is a murderer.”

  I kept my gaze steady. “He’s a solider,” I said. “Of course he’s killed.”

  A cold laugh from Brady. Lottie looked up from the log, her eyes darting between me and the men. Above our heads, the trees rustled in the hot wind.

  “We just wanted freedom,” said Owen. “A ship to take us home. There weren’t no one needed to die. But the lobsters marched up from Parramatta and surrounded us at Rouse Hill. Told us they were willing to parley. But when our leader come down the hill to speak with them, Major Johnson put a damn pistol to his head. Ordered his men to open fire.”

  “What were you expecting?” I hissed. “That the army would just stand by and allow prisoners to sail out of this place?”

  I turned to leave, but Owen grabbed my arm, yanking me back.

  “The lobsters were sent out into the bush,” he told me, his nose close to mine. “To hunt down those of us who got away. Hunt us down like animals. All throughout the settlement. Just like they did in Ireland.”

  I stiffened, unable to look at him.

  “Lieutenant Blackwell, he went downriver. Three of my cousins lived out near Squires’ inn, all of them sent out together after the rebellion in Ireland. Two of them weren’t even at Castle Hill. But Blackwell, he just saw croppies and pulled the trigger. Charged into their hut and shot the three of them without asking no questions.”