One of Us Buried

by Johanna Craven

  “Of course,” I said. “You’ve no opinion on the matter.”

  “I have an opinion,” he said sharply. “I’m just not obliged to share it with you.” He glanced down at his pocket watch, then grabbed his scarf from the back of the chair and wound it around his neck. “You would do well to remember your place, Eleanor.”

  My cheeks flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

  “Where are you going?” I asked, following him to the door. I didn’t want him to leave. I wanted him to stay here so I could unload my protests on him.

  “I’ve a council meeting.” He stopped at the door and looked back at me. “Can you sew?”

  I blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt change of subject. “Sew?” I repeated. “Yes, of course.”

  “Good.” He nodded towards the pile of shirts on the end of his sleeping pallet. “I’ve several pieces that need mending. I’ll pay you a half crown apiece. I know it falls outside our arrangement.”

  I clenched my hand around the edge of the door in frustration. Damn Blackwell and his decency. I wanted to be angry with him. Needed to be.

  “I thought the lobsters only traded in liquor,” I said sharply.

  “You ought to have some money of your own,” he said, pushing past my comment. “And I’d hate to think you were resorting to… other means to earn yourself a little coin.”

  I felt my face colour violently. “No,” I managed. “Of course I’m not.”

  Blackwell nodded. He looked away, as though embarrassed he had raised the subject. “Good,” he said shortly.

  I felt the loss of him as the door thumped shut. It was not just about needing to air my grievances, I realised. There was a part of me that wanted to be near him.

  I hovered in the doorway for a moment, hot and disoriented by the realisation. Then I took the sewing tin from the shelf and carefully threaded a needle.

  I heard voices outside the hut. Muffled, drunken laughter. I recognised Owen’s drawl. I grabbed the lamp and stepped outside.

  Owen and Brady were standing close to the door of the hut. There was something small and dark in Brady’s hand. They were tying it to the post of the awnings with a length of rope. I squinted. Were they paws? And eyes?

  “What in hell is that?” I demanded.

  Owen looked unfazed at the sight of me. “A little gift for the lieutenant.” He stepped back to admire his work. “Don’t you go taking it down now, Nellie.”

  I realised they had hung the battered corpse of some poor creature from the edge of Blackwell’s roof.

  “This the best you can do with your freedom, Owen?” I hissed. But he and Brady were already walking away.

  I went inside for a knife and sawed at the rope. The carcass fell to the earth with a dull thud. I picked the poor creature up by the legs and flung it into the bush.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “[If Catholicism] were tolerated they would assemble together from every quarter, not so much from a desire of celebrating mass, as to recite the miseries and injustice of their banishment, the hardships they suffer, and to enflame one another's minds with some wild scheme of revenge.”

  Rev. Samuel Marsden

  A Few Observations on the Toleration of the Catholic Religion in New South Wales

  1806

  “Wake up, Eleanor.” Blackwell’s voice was soft, and close to my ear. We had barely spoken since I’d confronted him about Owen’s exoneration. I took his gentleness as a sign I was forgiven.

  It was a Sunday. The bright morning light told me I had overslept. If Blackwell hadn’t woken me I would have been late for church.

  He was already at the door. “Meet me outside the hut after the service.”

  I pulled the blanket around my shoulders to cover myself. “Why? What do you need me to do?”

  But he had slipped out the door before my question was fully formed.

  When the service was over, I made my way back to the hut. Blackwell was already there waiting for me. He had changed out of his uniform into dark trousers and long black boots, his shirtsleeves rolled up to his elbows. I wondered distantly if he meant it as a gesture; wanted me to see him as something other than a lobster who’d let Maggie’s killer walk free. The neck cloth tied loosely at his throat made him look boyish and young. A small hessian sack was bunched into his hand.

  He started to walk. “Come with me.”

  I had to skip to keep up with his long-legged strides. “Where are we going?”

  “To find a little space.”

  My lips curled up slightly at his hazy response. I didn’t press him. I was coming to recognise that the way to prise answers from Adam Blackwell was to not ask questions at all.

  He led me down Macquarie Street and into a thick tangle of trees. Soon, any hint of the settlement had disappeared. I followed close, disoriented by the absence of a path. I could see the undergrowth had been trampled in places. By the savages, I wondered? My heart began to beat a little quicker.

  I heard a murmured voice carried on the wind. At the sound of our footsteps, the words fell silent.

  “This way.” Blackwell gestured with his head for us to walk in the opposite direction.

  I looked back over my shoulder. “Who was that?” I asked edgily. “All the way out here?”

  “Father Dixon, I assume,” said Blackwell. “Holding his Catholic mass.”

  “Out here?”

  “Well,” he said, “the Irish want his services. What choice does he have but to hold them in secret?”

  “You’re not going to stop them?”

  Blackwell looked ahead, shading his eyes from the sun. “I’ve more important things to do today.”

  “Lottie says Father Dixon was allowed to hold mass before the Irish uprising,” I said as we walked. I wanted to grasp the workings of this colony, however brutal things were. I felt as though understanding this place was the best way to survive it.

  I knew my education was worth little here. What did it matter in this place that I could dance a minuet, or play a Bach fugue? They were meaningless skills when life was stripped down to its necessities. In this place, it was a different type of knowledge that would save me; an understanding of who held the power and who was about to fall.

  “Dixon failed to talk the Irish down from attacking at Castle Hill,” Blackwell told me. “The mass was taken away as punishment.” He pushed aside an overhanging branch, holding it back for me to pass.

  “Were you fighting in Ireland?” I asked. “During the first rebellion?”

  He nodded.

  “They say the fighting was particularly brutal.”

  He watched the ground as he walked. “Yes,” he said finally. “But it’s the life a man signs up for when he chooses to fight for the Crown.” The undergrowth crackled loudly beneath his boots.

  “Must be a strange thing,” I said, “finding yourself fighting against the Irish again in this place.”

  “Not so strange. I feel I’ve spent my whole life fighting against the same men. And fighting with the same men, for that matter.” He gave a short smile. “For a place so far from home, this colony certainly has its share of familiar faces.”

  I smiled wryly at that. I’d not seen any faces from my old circles trudging the riverbank of Parramatta.

  Blackwell pointed suddenly to a small purple flower poking out of the undergrowth. “Here. Look.” He knelt down, gesturing to me to join him. “The chocolate plant,” he said. “They’ve just started flowering.”

  I smiled crookedly. “Chocolate plant?”

  He nodded. “Smell it.”

  I bent forward, inhaling the scent of the flower. A rich chocolate and vanilla aroma that brought a smile to my face.

  Blackwell dug into the earth and yanked out the root of the flower. “We roast these,” he said. “Eat them with a little salt and butter. The taste is quite something.” He put the tuber into the bag. “There ought to be plenty of them out here.”

  I smiled. “How did you learn t
o do this?”

  “I watched the natives do it once.”

  My shoulders stiffened. For a fleeting moment, I had forgotten we were in a world of savages and sharp-toothed creatures.

  Blackwell got to his feet and dusted the earth from his knees. “Come on. There’s more over here.”

  In spite of my unease, I followed him through the undergrowth. Sprigs of purple leapt from within the carpet of green. I knelt down and began to tug the tubers from the earth. Dampness soaked through my skirts.

  I inhaled deeply, drawing the clean, mint-scented air into my lungs. The bush rose up around me on all sides, the grey-green trees carpeting hills that rolled up towards mountains. A repetitive fragment of birdsong sounded above my head, its melody rising and falling. I sat back on my heels for a moment, trying to pick out the notes.

  I felt suddenly, inexplicably calm. There was something about this vastness, this rugged beauty; the ability of this wild land to feel at once so empty and so alive. I had not imagined I would feel calm in such a place.

  I allowed myself to get drawn into our search, hunting out the purple flowers from within the tangle of brown and green. I focused on the feel of my fingers buried in the damp earth; a foreign, raw sensation, but one I deeply enjoyed. My head felt pleasantly empty.

  When Blackwell said, “That’s enough,” I found myself oddly disappointed. He swung the full bag over his shoulder. “Unless you want to carry some more back in your pockets.”

  I smiled, wiping muddy hands against my skirts. We began to walk back in the direction of the settlement.

  The undergrowth rustled, and I heard the unmistakeable crackle of twigs. Blackwell held up a hand, gesturing to me to stop walking.

  My heart began to race. I felt myself edge closer to him.

  Another hiss and snap of twigs. The sighing of branches. And the natives stepped out in front of us.

  I heard my sharp inhalation. There was a part of me that had believed them a myth. A story told within the depths of the convict ships, like the two-headed monsters hiding in the bush.

  But these were not the wild warriors of the stories I had heard. Three men stood either side of the group, two women in the middle, and children among them, ranging in age from perhaps twelve or thirteen to a baby pressed against its mother’s hip. Each wore swathes of animal skin, reaching from their shoulders down to their bare feet.

  The children stared up at us with wide, dark eyes. Clouds of black hair hung past their shoulders, their skin the colour of darkest coffee. My gaze lingered on the spear in one of the natives’ hand; two heads taller than the man himself.

  Blackwell stood close, reaching around me and pressing a hand to my shoulder to steady me. My chest tightened. Fear? Or the unexpected feel of his hand against my body? He put the sack at his feet and held up his free hand in a gesture of peace. Nodded to the natives in greeting. I could hear my heart thudding in my ears.

  The tall man’s hand shifted on his spear and I heard myself gasp. But then he gave us the faintest of nods. He murmured to the others in words I didn’t understand, then they turned as one, disappearing back into the bush.

  I felt my muscles sink in relief. The back of my shift was damp with sweat.

  Blackwell’s hand slid from my shoulder. “There’s no need to be afraid,” he said. “They’ll not attack unless they’re provoked.”

  “That’s not what I’ve heard.”

  “The natives won’t come any further east than Prospect,” he said. “We’ve likely strayed into their land.” He watched his feet as we stepped over a fallen tree. “It’s the white men you ought to fear. Not the natives.”

  I didn’t answer. What did he mean by such a comment? Was he speaking of himself? Or was he warning me away from Patrick Owen and the other Irish rebels?

  He shoved aside a thicket of grass. “This way,” he said, “I want to show you something.”

  The ground began to rise steeply, and I grappled at tangled tree branches to haul myself up the incline. And suddenly the trees cleared, the land opening out before us. I let out my breath at the sight. I could see out to a jagged mountain range, silhouetted in the late afternoon sun. It was achingly beautiful; the peaks dotted with snow beneath the harsh black of the rock. Golden winter light spilled over the hills, a stark contrast to the heavy gloom that pressed down upon England.

  I sat on the hillside, hugging my knees to my chest. Let a sense of calm wash over me. I saw then that it had been a deliberate act; his bringing me here. He had known the mountains would be a tonic for my anger over Owen, over Marsden’s register. He had known how much I needed it. I felt a sudden swell of gratitude.

  I looked over my shoulder. He was standing several yards behind me, one hand shading his eyes from the sun. And for the first time, it was curiosity I felt about my new home, rather than terror. I thought again of the natives; of the mothers, the children, the tall man’s nod of greeting.

  I caught Blackwell looking at me.

  “How long have you been out here?” I asked.

  “Almost four years.”

  I imagined four years in this place must feel like a lifetime. The harshness of this land made time distort. My four months in New South Wales felt more like a decade.

  “Do you miss home?” I asked.

  “Sometimes.”

  I peered sideways at him, determined to eke out more than one-word answers. And then he sat beside me on the damp grass. I took it as a sign he was open to my questioning. I folded my legs beneath me, suddenly conscious of the shortness of my Navy Board issue skirts.

  “Who is she?” I asked. “The lady in the portrait?”

  Blackwell’s dark hair streamed back in the wind. “My wife. Sophia.”

  “Where is she?”

  I was expecting dead. Perhaps I was even hoping for dead.

  But, after a brief moment of silence he said, “London.”

  I heard a sound come from my throat. “Tell me about her.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “What do you wish to know?”

  In truth, I wished to know nothing. The question had just fallen out in the surprise of finding her still living. I could tell from her portrait the kind of lady his wife was; polite, well-spoken, obedient. The kind of lady I was supposed to have been.

  Blackwell had been four years away from his wife; four years, plus the length of the voyage. Had time apart made him long for her? Or had he pushed her to the back of his thoughts?

  “Do you love her?” I asked boldly.

  He didn’t flinch. “Yes. She’s my wife.”

  “A marriage does not necessarily equal love.”

  “No. But it did in our case.” He shook his head. “It does.” An afterthought.

  “Children?” I asked.

  “No.”

  And what was she doing now, I wondered, that lady in the portrait? Beautiful, curly-haired Sophia. Was she faithful to her husband, pining, praying, awaiting his return? Or had she long found someone to take his place?

  “And you?” he asked. “Have you a husband?”

  “No,” I said. “He died.” The words felt strange on my lips. It was the first time I had ever spoken of Jonathan’s death, outside of the interrogation at least. I was surprised at the lack of emotion in my voice.

  Blackwell said, “I’m sorry.”

  I nodded. Perhaps this was why I had never spoken of Jonathan. I didn’t want the pity. Or the questions.

  “You’re not like the other women here,” he said. “You did not commit a crime of desperation.”

  I gave a wry smile at that. His guess was not entirely accurate. My crime had been one of great desperation, just not desperation fuelled by an empty belly and starving children.

  “Is this your way of asking how I came to be here, Lieutenant?”

  “No.” He got to his feet, slinging the sack over his shoulder again. “That’s not for me to know.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The light had drained from the day by the time
we returned to the settlement. Though I was warm from walking, the icy wind had made my cheeks and fingertips numb. I wished for the gloves I had lost on the voyage.

  As we approached the main street, I held myself back, leaving space between myself and Blackwell. He looked over his shoulder at me, brow wrinkled in confusion. I wasn’t sure if my gesture was for him or me. I did not want him to be seen in the company of a lag in mud-streaked skirts. And I did not want to fuel stories of me as his concubine.

  As I approached the hut, I felt a stab of dread. The door was hanging open, the cloth on the window dangling by one corner.

  Blackwell dropped the sack and strode towards the hut. The tubers spilled onto the road. I grabbed the sack and followed.

  I let out my breath as I stepped through the door. The table had been knocked onto its side, the books flung from the shelves. Shards of glass jars were strewn over the floor between the remains of potted meat, and the wooden chest had been overturned. The place smelled of piss and spilled liquor. I hovered beside the grate.

  “Why did they do this?” I dared to ask.

  He ran a hand through his hair. “Because I’m a murdering bastard.” His voice was low and dark. Was it sarcasm? Or self-disgust? I couldn’t tell.

  “A little gift from the croppies, Lieutenant,” said a voice behind me. I whirled around to see Patrick Owen in the doorway. His arms were folded across his chest, and the grin on his face made me want to strike him.

  Blackwell strode towards him and Owen backed out into the street. I put down the sack and followed.

  Owen shoved against Blackwell’s chest, making him stumble backwards. No retaliation. Blackwell had several inches of height on the Irishman, his shoulders broader, arms thicker. But he made no attempt to fight, or to reach for his weapon and threaten Owen into leaving. It made me nervous. I knew Owen was the kind of man who’d carry a pistol in his pocket. The lieutenant was in close range. If there was a shot, he’d not survive it.

  I raced out into High Street, searching for the soldiers on patrol. I found them pacing the alleys close to Marsden’s land. When they saw me charging towards them, their hands went instinctively to their rifles. But when I told them what was happening – Patrick Owen and Lieutenant Blackwell – they were off down the street without giving me another glance.