“If the lieutenant was not killed, as you claim, why has he not come forward?”
I closed my eyes. It almost felt as though the soldiers wanted the dead man to be Blackwell. What an example they could make of me then; the factory lass who had murdered a soldier. My body would hang in a gibbet over Pinchgut Island, to greet the ships as they bucked their way into the harbour.
“Perhaps Owen found him,” I said. “Perhaps he’s harmed him.” This, of course, was the other reason I was so adamant that the body was proven to be Brady’s. Because I knew there was every chance Blackwell was in danger. And I needed him to be found.
The captain was quick to remind me there were no witnesses to the shooting. Nothing but my word to go on. The rest did not need to be said. The word of a factory lass found covered in blood with a pistol beside her.
“What of Dan Brady?” I asked. “You’ve not found him, have you.” But I knew hunting down Brady, an emancipist with no fixed address, was not something the redcoats were willing to entertain.
Back in my cell, I paced. My heart was racing and my skin was damp with sweat. I was overflowing with fear. But the fear, I realised, was no longer for myself. I was a factory lass with blood on my hands. I’d escaped the hangman once, but I knew I would not do so again. Somehow, knowing I had no chance to win made it easier to push away the terror.
But my fear for Blackwell was consuming. Now I had let myself believe he was alive, I couldn’t bear to go back to the alternative. But there had been no sign of him since the morning of Brady’s death. Had he fallen into the hands of the rebels? If he were still in Sydney Town, he would surely have been sighted. I would not be being held for his murder.
I had no answers, of course. Just a desperate hope he still lived. The optimism felt dangerous. A thing that could all too easily be torn away.
*
Two and a half years ago I had stood in a courtroom dock at the Old Bailey and listened to the judge sentence me to a lifetime in New South Wales.
It had felt like a reprieve. I had been expecting a walk to the gallows.
I’d learned later that a literate, well-mannered woman like me was never destined for the hangman. I was a desirable thing for this new colony.
Now here I was with the murder of a soldier to my name. I knew well my education would not save me.
The trial was short. A foregone conclusion. Beside me, the other prisoners shifted in the dock; sent to the coalmines, sent to Toongabbie. Two hundred lashes, three days on Pinchgut Island.
I let my mind escape. I thought of birdsong and pearly light and the distant sigh of the sea. Thought of the rugged beauty of this place I had not learned to truly appreciate until now, when it was far too late.
Though I could not claim to be surprised by it, the verdict still weakened my knees.
“For the murder of Adam Blackwell, you are sentenced to hang by the neck until you are dead.”
PART FOUR
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO
And so tomorrow morning I am to die in the orange light of New South Wales. I had always known, as I had felt the ship buck its way down the Thames, that I would never be returning to the land of my birth. But I had not expected the end to come so abruptly. I will not see my thirtieth birthday.
In the dim light of my cell, I look down at my hands. I can still see the bloodstains; can still see where the skin is discoloured, darker than the rest. For all my astronomy lessons and garden parties, for all the scales my fingers have churned through on the piano, I will go to my death with blood on my hands.
I don’t sleep. Though I want to escape the violent chaos of my thoughts, I know I will have this escape soon enough. The darkness is almost impenetrable, and the hours are blank. At once both interminably long and painfully fast.
I am terrified for Blackwell. Wherever he is, I know he is not safe. Perhaps Owen has already killed him. Perhaps the rebel leader has gotten the revenge he so desperately sought. And I am the one who will swing for Blackwell’s death.
Untouchable Owen.
Faint birdsong breaks through the dark and it makes sickness rise in my throat. Throughout the night, I had felt a sense of cold resignation, but with the light, I am terrified. Today I am to die.
The sunlight comes, brighter and brighter, straining beneath the door, through the keyhole. My entire body shakes as I wait for the footsteps of the men who will take me to my death.
I wait.
And I wait. I alternate between pacing the cell and huddling in the corner with my knees to my chest. At times I want this horror to be over; I crave stillness in my pounding chest. The next moment, I want time to freeze, so I might catch hold of every last thread of my waning life.
I hear footsteps, murmurs, but they do not come to my cell.
And then it is afternoon. And then the pink light of evening. My thoughts knock together, jumping around my memories. Twelfth night balls, the stained bulkheads of the Norfolk. Counterfeit coins in my reticule, Blackwell’s hands in my hair.
Another night comes and I am still alive. I am dizzy, sweat-soaked, disoriented. I don’t know what to do. I was not supposed to be here, not supposed to see this hour. And so I keep sitting. Keep pacing. Keep waiting.
It is the next morning when the footsteps finally come. I am unprepared. I had readied myself for my death and the moment had passed. I had even fallen into an exhausted sleep.
The door clicks open and I hear a cry of fear escape me.
“This way,” says the guard. His voice is cold and empty.
My legs feel weak beneath me. The world swims and my mouth goes dry. I grapple at the stone wall, searching for something to steady myself. My legs give way and I fall to my knees.
The guard looks at me with something close to pity, and for some reason, this is worse than his coldness.
I follow him out of my cell and down a long stone corridor. We stop in front of the door leading to the room I had first been interrogated in. The guard knocks.
“Enter,” says the voice on the other side.
When we step into the room, I see the captain and ensign who had placed this murder at my feet. They gesture to a chair in front of the table.
I crumple into the seat, my legs barely able to hold me. My vision is swimming. I don’t understand what is happening. I was expecting to be led to the gallows.
The captain folds his hands on the table in front of him. He says:
“Another woman has come forth and confessed to the murder.”
For a long time, I don’t speak. There is so much wrong with this. I had been the one to pull the trigger. The memories are there; hazy, but they are there. I had made myself certain of them. But if I am wrong about this, perhaps I am also wrong about the body being Dan Brady’s.
“No,” I hear myself say.
They tell me of a trial that took place while I was waiting out my last day on earth. They tell me of the woman who came forth and spoke of the altercation outside Captain Grant’s home. Spoke of the ball she had put in the chest of Dan Brady.
Dan Brady, says the voice in my head.
Dan Brady.
Dan Brady.
I don’t understand why Lottie has done this; I only know it can be no one else.
I don’t move. I don’t speak. I can’t deny this story, of course. I was unconscious at the time.
Even if I could deny it, the trial has taken place. Lottie has already condemned herself to the hangman. And in doing so, she has freed me.
“Please,” I say. “Let me see her.”
The guard takes me to Lottie’s cell, two doors down from where I had been held for the past five days. She is sitting in the corner with her knees to her chest. She barely looks up as I enter. I glance over my shoulder at the guard.
“Will you let us speak?”
A faint nod. He pulls the door closed, locking us in.
I kneel beside Lottie in the filthy straw and press my hand to her arm. Her skin is cold. I am still blazing from my abo
rted date with the hangman. Even at the touch of my hand, she doesn’t shift her gaze.
“Lottie,” I say. Finally, she looks up at me. Her eyes are dry, almost expressionless. Her hair hangs in pieces around her hollow cheeks.
“Why are you doing this?” I ask.
“Because I was the one who killed Dan Brady.”
“No. You’re lying.”
Lottie looks at me squarely. “Why would I do that?”
“Why would you kill Brady?”
“Because you were struggling with him. He was going to shoot you.”
She is lying. I remember the feel of my finger on the trigger. Don’t I?
“How did you kill him?” I ask.
“With the gun I stole from Patrick. The one I kept in Willie’s basket. I took it with me everywhere.”
I shake my head. “Owen would have killed you for it.”
“For harming Brady?” She lets out a cold laugh. “Patrick don’t care what happens to anyone but himself. All he cares about is his revenge.”
I wrap my arms around myself, suddenly cold. “What about Willie?” I ask. “What is he to do without you, if—”
I stop speaking as Lottie shakes her head. And then her tears come. “The fever,” she says, “he couldn’t fight it off. He was too weak. Too small.”
I let out my breath, pulling her into me “I’m sorry,” I cough. “I’m so sorry.” She feels limp and fragile in my arms, as though all the fight has drained out of her. After a moment, I sit back, trying to find her eyes. “Is that why you’re doing this? Because you lost Willie?”
She winds her bootlace listlessly around her finger. I hear the guard’s footsteps thud back and forth outside the door.
“The whole of it was my fault,” she says after a while. “I was the one who brought Patrick to the house. I thought if I led him to Blackwell he might see I was worth something. See I was of use.” She swipes at her tears. “I thought he might take me and Willie back to the farm. For good this time. Not just for the night. I thought we could make another go of things. Be a family.”
My throat tightens, my own tears threatening. I want to feel anger, but all I feel is sorrow.
“Where is Blackwell?” I dare to ask.
Lottie sniffs. “I don’t know. After Dan… was killed, Patrick broke into the house looking for the lieutenant. He came back with his coat. Said the whole place was empty. He was furious about it.”
“You’ve not seen Blackwell since?”
She shakes her head.
My thoughts race. And they go to a tiny hut near Squires’ inn where Patrick Owen’s family had died.
Has Blackwell been driven there by the ghosts he is haunted by? The ghosts he refuses to speak of?
I want to go to him. But I don’t want to leave Lottie.
“Was it Owen’s idea to do what he did to the body? To make me think it were Blackwell?”
Lottie nods faintly. “He took the coat from Blackwell’s room. Defaced Dan’s body so you’d think…” She coughs down her tears. “That was it for me, Nell. When I saw him do that to Dan… His friend… Just to punish you for prying into our business… I couldn’t have nothing more to do with him.”
I swallow hard. Her realisation has come far too late.
“I asked him why he killed Maggie,” Lottie says suddenly.
For a moment I don’t speak. “I thought you believed him innocent.”
“That’s what I needed to believe.”
I nod slowly. I understand, of course. How many times had I told myself Blackwell had not pulled the trigger on Owen’s family? In the end, the truth had not mattered for me. But I knew it mattered to Lottie.
“He was my way out of the factory,” she says, looking at her hands. “I couldn’t have managed three more years of weaving cloth and lying with old Bert. I had to get out. You must think me such a fool.”
I shake my head faintly. “I understand,” I say. “I know you don’t believe it, but I do. I know how desperate the factory can make you.”
Lottie wipes her eyes with the back of her hand. “Phil Cunningham was the leader of the croppies before they rose up at Castle Hill,” she told me. “He’d come to Parramatta sometimes and drink with us at the river. Tell us of how things would be different after the Irish were in charge. We all believed him. He gave us hope. There weren’t one of us who thought things would end like they did. There weren’t one of us who thought Phil wouldn’t come back that day.” She stares blankly ahead, her eyes glazed.
“After Castle Hill, Patrick took his place. Tried to keep our spirits high. I was so taken by him, Nell. I was drawn to him right from the day I first met him. But he were a different kind of man to Phil. He weren’t interested in freedom. Not once did he ever try and rouse the croppies to rise up again. He were only interested in revenge. In making Blackwell pay for what he did to his family.
“I’d convinced myself it were the savages that killed Maggie,” she says. “But after I saw Patrick do what he did to Dan’s body… I weren’t so sure.” She turns to face me then, her eyes round and glistening. “He couldn’t even find a reason. Just told me she had it coming.” She takes a deep breath. “I know that being Irish makes him feel weak. Powerless. He needs to prove how strong he is.”
A knot tightens in my stomach. Killing a mere factory lass will not have given Owen the power he craves. That will only come with killing Blackwell.
“Does he know you’ve turned yourself in?” I ask.
Lottie shakes her head, tears sliding down her cheeks. “The day Dan died,” she says, “Patrick sent me back to the Rocks. But I didn’t go. I went to his farmhouse and I stood there with his pistol in my hand.” She looks me in the eye. “I wanted to do it, Nell. I wanted to break back into the house and kill him. Retribution for Maggie. And Dan. And you. But I couldn’t do it.” For a long time, she doesn’t speak. “He needs to be stopped,” she says. “The Rum Corps won’t do it. They had the chance after Maggie, but they’re too afraid of another uprising.”
I nod silently.
“And the croppies,” she says, “they’re blinded by him. They can’t see the kind of man he truly is. The colony would be better off without him. And the Irish need to follow a better man.” Her eyes plead with mine. “He needs to be stopped,” she says again.
I open my mouth to speak, but can’t find the words. “I couldn’t,” I say finally.
“Of course you could. You despise him. And he wants Blackwell dead. You’re strong enough to do it, Nell. I’m not.”
I think of myself, tearful and pleading when I’d first been hauled away by the thief-takers in London. How have I become the strong one?
I think of the night I had stood outside Owen’s hut with the knife in my hand. And I think of Dan Brady’s body, lying lifeless in the alley. I have already become a killer. Or is Lottie telling the truth? I have no thought of it. All I know is that now she is the one who will be taken to the gallows. And I am the one who is to live.
“You must,” says Lottie. “Or else more of us will die. More croppies. And more of the factory lasses.”
She has given her life for me. And so what can I do but agree?
*
The guard escorts me down the corridor, towards the heavy wooden doors that lead to the outside world. A part of me is oddly reluctant to step through them; to do so is acknowledge completely this sacrifice Lottie has made for me. Acknowledge she will be sent to the scaffold in my place. And acknowledge that she is sending me out into the world to end Patrick Owen’s life.
Before I step into the street, I look back at the guard. “Lieutenant Blackwell’s family.” I say. “Have there been letters sent informing them of his death?”
I think of Blackwell’s father. I think of Sophia. The next ship to England leaves in days’ time. And I have no idea whether Blackwell will be aboard. But word of his death must not leave the harbour. If news of the murder is sent on the ship, it could be years before his family learns the truth.
“The situation has been rectified,” says the guard. He has been stiltedly polite to me since he has learned I did not kill his schoolmate. “The letter informing his father of the murder has been recalled.”
“And his wife?” I ask.
“The lieutenant has no wife.”
“He does,” I say. “Sophia.”
The guard looks at me curiously. “Sophia died years ago in London. Long before Blackwell came out here.”
I feel suddenly hot and unsteady. “Are you certain?”
“Certain as anything,” says the guard. “I was at her burial.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
The weight of it all cows me. Sophia’s burial and Lottie’s sacrifice and this great overwhelming relief that I am standing here; living, breathing. Sydney Town is searing in its brightness and I hunch for long moments in the street outside the jail, wearing the grey flannel smock I had expected to die in. My heart is thundering in my chest, a stark reminder that I have survived.
I fill my lungs with air, trying to steady myself. I was not supposed to see this world again. I have no idea how to act within it.
My head is full of Lottie, of Owen, of Blackwell. Of beautiful curly-haired Sophia lying lifeless in her grave.
I push the thought of her away. There is no room in my mind to grapple with the reason for Blackwell’s lies.
I know he has gone to the Owens’ cottage. I know he is in danger. And I know that, for all his painful untruths, I have no choice but to find him.
By afternoon, I am walking a narrow track out of Sydney Town, following the river into tangled wilderness. One pocket is stuffed with bread, the other with an apple I had taken from the Whaler’s kitchen.
“You sure about this, Nell?” Charlie had asked, when I’d gone to him for directions. Kate clung to my wrist as I filled a flask of water. “It’s a hell of a walk.”
I am terrified, but sure. I know this is where I must go to find Blackwell. And only once I have done such a thing can I turn my thoughts to what Lottie has asked of me.
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