The cottage door is hanging open. I can see Owen at the table. Blackwell sits opposite him, on chairs they have reclaimed from the wilderness. There is a pistol in the centre of the table, Owen’s hand splayed over it.
“You’re not welcome in this place, Lieutenant,” he is saying. “You shouldn’t have come.” He shifts in his chair, making it creak loudly.
Blackwell nods slowly. “I understand. And if you wish to kill me now, I understand that too.”
Owen falters. A response he was not expecting. He glances out the door. “Where’s Nell? I know she’s here.”
“Your business is with me,” says Blackwell. “Not with her.”
But Blackwell knows nothing of the silent promise I made to Lottie as we knelt together in her jail cell. My business with Patrick Owen goes far deeper than either of these men know.
You’re strong enough to do it, Nell. I hadn’t believed her words then and I don’t believe them now. But I want to.
Owen’s hand tightens around the pistol and I clench my teeth to keep from crying out. If I force myself to look at this from his perspective, I can see the perfection of Blackwell dying in this place. Of catching him here so his blood might be added to that he had spilled.
Owen turns the pistol over and shuffles in his chair. It scrapes noisily against the earthen floor. Opposite him, Blackwell is motionless. His hands are curled around his knees, chest open as though awaiting the shot. Taller, broader; he is the more dominant of the men, without even trying.
He faces Owen, waiting. Waiting for him to do as he has been invited, and pull the trigger.
I see then that Blackwell’s invitation has taken the power out of this moment. Maggie’s murder had been a way for Owen to prove his dominance, Lottie had said. He kills to be powerful, to be strong. But where is the power in this?
“Where is Nell?” he asks again.
“I’m here,” I say, stepping inside the hut. Blackwell glances at me. My eyes go to the pistol on the table, then I look back at Owen, expectant.
“The girl,” he says. “Who is she?”
“You know who she is.”
His jaw tightens.
What does he see when he looks at Kate? Does he see her mother writhing beneath his hands as he crushed the life from her? Or does he just see something to be discarded, like Maggie, like Lottie, like his son?
His breathing grows louder. Is he rattled by the sight of Kate Abbott, with her mother’s eyes, her mother’s face? Is he haunted by his own ghosts, just as Blackwell is? Have the women of the factory somehow crawled beneath his skin?
“Does she make you feel guilty, Owen?” I ask. “Does she make you think of her mother?”
“Guilty?” he repeats, his humourless laugh sounding hollow in the stillness. “Why would I feel guilty? They’re just worthless lags.”
In a flash of rage, I snatch the gun from the table. Hold it out, Owen in my line of sight. And in a second, Blackwell is on his feet. I feel his hands on my shoulders, easing my arms down. And then he stops. Steps back.
He is giving me the choice, I realise. He is letting me make my own decision.
Untouchable Owen. If I pull the trigger here, with only Blackwell as a witness, I know I would avoid the hangman. My thoughts are far clearer than they were the night I had walked towards Owen’s hut with a kitchen knife in my hand.
I couldn’t do it then, but perhaps I can do it now.
For a moment, I see it; Owen’s body slumping as I fire into his chest. The look of shock on his face as he falls; surprise that he might be taken out by a factory lass. I imagine the sense of satisfaction I will feel to know I have done as Lottie had asked. To know there is some tiny flicker of justice in this place.
And then I see the Irish rebels, gathering, rising at the death of their leader, inspired to seek revenge. Placing the blame for Owen’s murder at Lieutenant Blackwell’s feet.
And it won’t be satisfaction I feel; not really. It will be that awful sickness I felt when I saw Dan Brady’s body sprawled across the alley. And it will be terror at the thought that there are still days until Blackwell’s ship leaves for England and the croppies may ensure he does not see them out.
I keep the pistol held out in front of me. Still, I don’t know what my decision will be. Perhaps Owen’s death will let me feel some hollow sense of justice. Perhaps it will still the constant churning in my chest. Or perhaps taking his life will haunt me forever.
Owen’s eyes meet mine for a moment. In the flickering lamplight, they are glazed and expectant. Fearful. The sight of his terror brings a rush of satisfaction.
I hear my heart thudding in my ears. An animal shrieks in the bush beyond the hut. The sound seems both close and far away. The world feels unsteady, as though I am being tossed upon the seas.
The next sound I hear is footsteps. Soft footfalls against the floor of the cottage. Owen is walking. He has decided I will not shoot. Has decided I am too weak.
I tighten my hands around the stock of the pistol, feeling my finger on the trigger. And then I feel Blackwell’s hand against my shoulder. I lower the pistol and set it on the table as I hear Owen’s footsteps disappearing into the bush. Let him walk, I think, as he is swallowed by the darkness. Let him carry his guilt, and his shame, just as the rest of us must.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
A swarm of people has gathered in George Street, waiting for the gates of the jail yard to open. A woman’s execution always draws a crowd.
People are chatting excitedly, laughing, children leaping over puddles. I want to scream; want to shake them. How can there be chatter, laughter, leaping, when Lottie is to die?
My eyes dart, searching for Owen. I pray he will stay away. I don’t want Lottie to know I have failed to do as she has asked. And I don’t want him to be the last thing she sees before she dies.
I don’t see Owen, but I do see Blackwell. As the gates creak open and the crowd funnels through, our eyes meet. I look away quickly.
At the sight of the hangman standing upon the gallows, I am breathless. I have never seen a person put to death. And just a few days earlier the noose had been tied for me. I want to rush from the jail yard. Close my eyes and pretend this isn’t happening. Pretend that when I next step into the Rocks I will find Lottie in the kitchen with a baby’s basket at her feet. I try to breathe. And against every thread of instinct I have, I push my way to the front of the crowd. I need Lottie to see me. I need her to know that today she is not alone.
Though my eyes are on the noose dancing in the hot wind, I’m aware of Blackwell making his way towards me. Always, I’m aware of him.
He pushes his way through the crowd and stands behind me. Puts a hand to my shoulder. And yes, this simple gesture is a big thing, a part of me sees that. Him with his red coat and me with my convict stain, and anyone in the colony who could see us. But it is not enough to undo two years of lies.
In spite of myself, a part of me wants to step closer. Let him hold me while I watch Lottie die. But I don’t want to be comforted by him. I don’t want to need him. I’ve already needed him far too much. I take a step away.
Out Lottie comes from the jail; a soldier in front of her, behind her; a rifle at her back. Her chin is lifted defiantly, and her eyes are sharp. She has conjured up her pride, her confidence, her brassiness, and I am glad of it. This is the way I want to remember her; not as the tearful mess she had been the last time we had spoken. She looks strikingly, painfully alive.
I think of that tiny smile she had given me the day I had first arrived in Parramatta; a smile that had done so much to calm me, to reassure me, to show me this place had some humanity in it.
I think of drinking with her by the river, and of dancing on Christmas night. And I think of standing outside her hut the day she had been betrothed to Owen, begging her to stay. What if I had found kinder words? Or had not turned away from her when she’d had the men tell me of Blackwell’s crimes? Could I have tried harder to keep her marrying? Tea
rs well up behind my eyes – I know it is far too late for any of these questions.
She climbs the scaffold on steady legs. My throat is tight and my heart is fast. I look up at her. I want her to see how grateful I am that she came forward, gave herself up to save me. Still, I have no thought of whether she is telling the truth about Dan Brady’s death. Perhaps I never will. There are no more words I can say to her, of course, but I meet her gaze; thank her, forgive her for leading Owen to Blackwell. Hope the look in my eyes tells her how much I love her.
As the hangman slides the noose over her head, I feel my body grow hot, begin to shake. I keep my feet planted in the dust of the jail yard, praying my legs will support me. I hold my breath and clench my jaw, as though trying to preserve this last fleeting second of Lottie’s life.
A knock of the trapdoor and she is gone. A quick death, but one that feels all too easy. As though it is nothing but a trifle to take a factory lass from the world.
I stumble out of the jail. There is a strange energy to the place. Perhaps it’s just my imagination; I am dizzy and unsettled as I try to navigate this world of which Lottie is no longer a part.
Soldiers are gathering in the street, murmuring among themselves. Blackwell passes me and his eyes meet mine. Then he leaves the jail with the other soldiers. Crunch and thud go the boots, in flawless formation.
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?”
I take the money and slide it into my apron. “Two in an hour. That’s not like you.”
“Well,” he says, eyes meeting mine, “I’ve to do something while I sit here hoping you’ll eventually speak to me.”
I say nothing. I want him to leave. But I also want him to stay. Stay in the tavern. Stay in the colony. But it’s far too late for any of that.
“I was a fool,” he says. His words should feel like a victory, but they don’t. Because I know he had not been a fool. He had been acting in line with beliefs that had been ingrained in him since he had first pulled on his uniform.
I shake my head. “You’re no fool. You knew exactly what you were doing.”
“Yes,” he says. “I knew what I was doing. I was doing as I was taught to do. And that’s what makes me a fool.”
I close my eyes for a moment. A dark strand of hair hangs over his cheek and it takes all my resolve not to reach out and touch it.
“Meet me at the wharf tomorrow morning,”
he says. “Please. Nine o’clock.”
I fold my arms; a gesture of self-preservation. “Your ship is due to leave tomorrow.”
“Yes,” says Blackwell. “In the evening. So give me the day. And then you never need have anything to do with me again.”
I hesitate. But then I find myself nodding.
I see the faintest of smiles on Blackwell’s lips. “Thank you,” he says. He stands. “I don’t need that second drink.”
He is out the door before I can give him back his penny.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
In the morning, I sit at a table in the corner of the tavern and write a carefully worded letter. I fold it, seal it and slip it into my pocket. And then I make my way to the wharf.
Blackwell is waiting for me on the edge of the water, coat buttoned to his neck and boots gleaming. At the sight of me, a tentative smile breaks across his face. “I’m glad to see you. I wasn’t sure you’d come.”
A small, single-masted boat is bobbing on the swell, its sail furled against the hot wind. A seaman sits by the tiller, legs stretched out in front of him, awaiting our arrival.
I raise my eyebrows. “Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
Blackwell offers me his hand and helps me step into the boat. I fold myself neatly onto the bench seat and look out over the glittering sea. An enormous three-masted ship lies at anchor beside the dock, men swarming up the gangway with crates in their arms. Tonight it will set sail for England.
Soon, our boat is flying down the river, the hot wind billowing the sail. When last I made this journey, from the silver swell of Sydney Harbour, inland towards Parramatta, I was bound for the factory above the jail. The enormous shadows of the trees, the animal shrieks within the bush, the inky darkness that had cloaked the land; every part of it had filled me with terror. But today the golden water feels different. I lift my face upwards, enjoying the warmth on my cheeks. This sun-bleached land will be my life forever, but I am achingly grateful to be living it.
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