I swatted the flies from my face. “Have you been working for Leaver all this time?”
She nodded. “He took me off the ship. The place weren’t no more than a few tents on his land when I first got here.”
“And how do you find him? Has he treated you well?”
She shrugged, looking back at her feet. She barely reached my shoulder. “Could be worse. Could have been sent to the factory.”
I smelled the butcher’s stall long before we reached it. The acrid stench of flesh floated on the hot wind, making my stomach roll.
“You go for the fruit and vegetables,” I offered, pressing the list into Amy’s hand. “I’ll fetch the meat.”
And I stopped walking abruptly, caught off guard by the figure of Blackwell striding out of the government stores. Since I’d begun working for the Leavers, I’d barely seen more than glimpses of him; sometimes at Marsden’s services, sometimes here at the market, or on his way to the courthouse. I’d been careful to hide myself. What point was there in speaking? We both knew what had passed between us on the twelfth night had been a mistake. I had crossed a line that should never have been crossed.
But today, he had seen me. I knew I could not turn away without appearing petty and childish. Amy glanced at me expectantly, but I said nothing, just watched frozen as Blackwell strode towards us. He offered something vaguely resembling a smile.
“Good morning, Eleanor.”
I hated the formality in his voice. Hated that the wall around him I had spent eight months chipping away at had so quickly been rebuilt. I gave a short nod. “Lieutenant.”
Amy’s eyes were fixed to the ground. She chewed her lip, knotting her fingers together in front of her chest. Blackwell towered over her.
A strained silence hovered between us, punctuated by the clatter of leg irons coming from the chain gang across the street. A wagon full of vegetables rattled past.
Blackwell’s stiltedness left me in no doubt he had been the one behind my going to the Leavers’. Was it a punishment, I wondered? My penance for luring him to break his marriage vows? For daring to bring shame to his door? Perhaps I deserved what came to me.
I value your company, he had told me that night, as I’d reached up to unbutton my dress. And I had been foolish enough to believe his words. Had been foolish enough to believe I mattered.
“How are you getting on with Leaver?” he asked finally.
My hand tensed around the handle of the basket. “Fine, thank you.”
He nodded. “I’ve heard him a decent man.”
I looked up at him then. “Have you?” My voice came out sharper than I intended.
Blackwell made a noise in his throat and I regretted my outburst. Because standing there by the market, caught between a chain gang and the shadow of the courthouse, I saw the two of us as what we really were. Government lag and military officer. I saw I had no place to question him, to speak back to him, to stand in the lamplight and slide my dress from my shoulders. If he wanted me gone from his hut, who was I to fight it? I swallowed.
“And you?” I asked stiffly. “Are you well?” My skin felt damp beneath my shift.
“I’m well, yes. Thank you.”
I wanted to ask him more; whether he’d had any trouble with Owen and Brady. What book he was reading now. If he had any shirts that needed mending. But I knew it was no longer my place to do so. Perhaps it never had been.
He glanced down at my empty basket, then back at me. “I’ll let you get on with your business.” And then he was gone.
Amy dared to look up, staring after Blackwell as he disappeared around the corner. Threads of blonde hair blew across her eyes. “Do you know him?” she asked in an awed half-voice.
My jaw tightened. “Barely.” I felt longing, felt anger. Felt like a worthless lag who’d been slapped down to where she belonged.
I put a hand to Amy’s shoulder, ushering her towards the fruit stall. “Come on. Let’s get the food. It’s far too hot to be out here.”
*
At the end of February, Leaver put in a good word with the magistrate and one of his farmhands was given his ticket of leave.
When we had finished serving dinner to the family, I joined the other workers out by the barn for a farewell drink to the lucky man. The night was hot and still, cicadas shrieking in the paddocks and the musky smell of animals thick in the air.
Amy sighed heavily as we sat beside each other on the brown grass. “Wish it were me leaving this place.” She stretched her legs out in front of her and began rubbing at a stain on her skirt.
I nodded. I knew we were all thinking the same. All wished we were the one with the ticket of leave being pressed into our hand. I picked up a twig and dug it listlessly into the earth.
Was I being foolish to imagine I might get such a chance? I knew with my life sentence and a stay in solitary confinement, there was not much to pin my hopes on. I had little to do with Leaver beyond his gruff orders for more food, but his young wife had taken a liking to me. Perhaps with a few well-placed words in her husband’s ear, such a thing would become possible.
I had to believe it so. I couldn’t spend the rest of my life scraping out another woman’s hearths. I knew I would never see England again, but I didn’t want to die in chains.
But even with a ticket of leave, what prospects would I have? I knew if I were to have any chance at a decent life, I would have to put myself forward at the marriage market. I would have to speak of my past; of my first husband’s death, and hope the wife hunters saw only the obedience that had led me to New South Wales.
I left the celebration early and crawled off to bed, hanging my dust-streaked skirts over the chair in the corner of the room. I’d grown used to my tiny, silent bedroom; to the feel of waking alone each morning. I closed my eyes, my body aching with exhaustion. I craved the escape of my dreams.
From the back of the property I could hear the distant laughter of the farmhands. The steady wail of the cicadas. I shifted on the mattress, the air hot and stifling. And as I waited for sleep to pull me down, I heard another sound. Rhythmic footsteps, like an army in motion. Approaching, passing, fading away.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“Our servant burst into the parlour pale and violent in agitation … he told us that the croppies had risen … we then learnt that Castle Hill was in flames. The fire was discernible from Parramatta. It was recommended that as many ladies as chose should go to Sydney, as constant intelligence was brought into the barracks of the near approach of the Irishmen.”
Elizabeth Macarthur
1804
I was on my way to the apothecary for Mrs Leaver when the chain gang shuffled out into the street, arms laden with hammers and saws. With chaotic footsteps, and leg irons rattling, they edged towards a building site close to Government House. Two soldiers marched along beside them. I recognised one of them as Ensign Cooper, who had sent Owen away the day he had attacked Blackwell.
I stood watching for a moment, the empty basket held against my chest. New South Wales had left its mark on me – the scar above my eyebrow, the calluses on my hands, the restlessness in my heart – but at that moment I was grateful for the hand I had been dealt since I’d stepped off the Norfolk. And perhaps I was even grateful to be a woman. My ankles were not scarred from chains, and my back was not flayed when I stepped out of line. I did not spend my days breaking rocks and building the government’s houses. But gratitude felt like a dangerous thing. A thing that could so easily be taken away.
One of the convicts glanced at me and I turned away, unable to bear the sorrow in his eyes.
“What did you say?” I heard Cooper roar, his voice coming from nowhere and making me start. He loomed over two men at the back of the chain gang. Jabbed one in the side with the nose of his rifle. “What d’you say, bog-trotter?”
The man looked up at him with blank, frightened eyes.
“He don’t speak no English, sir,” the man behind him ventured. Cooper slammed t
he butt of the rifle into his nose. The man crumpled, blood spurting down the front of his shirt.
Several of the convicts began to shout in protest, others kept their eyes down. People appeared from inside the shops and taverns, watching as the convict’s blood vanished into the mud. I pressed my back against the wall of the apothecary.
Here came more soldiers, marching in step, their coats stark against the muted earth and green.
“They’re plotters, sir,” I heard Cooper say to the captain striding towards him. “Bloody Irish rebels.” The captain bent down and unlocked the shackles of the beaten man, along with the prisoner who had defended him.
“Take them to the cells. Find out what they’re planning.”
I hurried back to the farmhouse with the tonics for Mrs Leaver.
Plotters.
Take them to the cells.
Did the soldiers truly believe the men were planning another uprising? Or was this just a show of strength? A warning to the wayward Irish?
I found Mrs Leaver sitting up in bed, blankets piled up over her knees. With her second child on the way, she was pale and weak with nausea.
I placed the tonics on the table beside her bed. “The apothecary said these will help. Shall I boil up the ginger? Make you some tea?”
“Yes,” she said. “Thank you.” She sat her book on the nightstand and looked up at me. “Are you all right, Eleanor? You look a little out of sorts. Has something happened I ought to know about?”
I shook my head, smoothing her blankets and collecting the empty tea tray from the floor. “Nothing you ought to bother yourself with.”
And why, I wondered, was I so bothered by it myself? Why had the mistreatment of two Irish lags made me so unsettled? Was I afraid of a second rebellion? Afraid for Blackwell’s safety? Yes, but I was coming to see it was more than that. In the abuse of those croppies, I saw every injustice in the colony; the women with no place to sleep, the rations of rotted meat, Maggie’s murder and Owen’s freedom.
Since I’d made the choice to be ignorant no longer, I felt as though I were absorbing everything; the fear, the anger, the grief of the people I shared this place with. Everywhere I looked, I saw a thing to spark my anger; a thing that made me rail against my complete and utter powerlessness. I knew one day soon I would no longer be able to keep that rage inside.
The cup rattled against its saucer as I carried the tray towards the door. I looked back at Mrs Leaver and forced a smile. “I’ll fetch you that tea.”
After supper that night, Amy knocked on the door of my room. I was sitting cross-legged on the bed, mending the hem of my striped gown.
“There’s a woman here for you. Says she knows you from the factory. She’s waiting for you out back.”
I put down my sewing and grabbed my shawl, murmuring my thanks as I headed for the door.
I found Hannah waiting for me outside the farmhouse, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders to keep out the icy wind. I was glad to see her. It had been many weeks since I’d sat at the river and drunk with the factory lasses. There was too much coldness between Lottie and me. Too much hatred in me at Owen. Too much sadness and anger over Maggie.
In the flickering lamplight, I could see Hannah’s smile was strained. “All right, Nell? How they treating you?”
Wind tunnelled across the paddocks and I tugged my shawl around me tighter. “Can’t complain.” I looked at her expectantly. I knew this more than a visit to see how I was faring. “Has something happened?”
Hannah knotted her gnarled fingers. “Patrick Owen came to the factory today. With his marriage certificate.”
I closed my eyes. “Lottie.”
Hannah nodded.
“No. She can’t have. She can’t.” What in hell was she doing? Surely she couldn’t think this was the only way.
“Were there others who were willing?” I asked.
“One or two,” said Hannah. “Far less than normally put themselves forward. But Owen didn’t even look at the others. He wanted Lottie. It were obvious from the start.”
I wondered sickly whether the two of them had discussed this earlier. Had he spoken to her of his plans to marry one night while we were drinking at the river? Had she known he was about to strut into the factory with his marriage permit in his hand?
“They’re saying he got himself land in Sydney Town,” said Hannah. “He’s planning on taking her down there.”
I began to march down the side path and out into the street. “I’ve got to speak to her.”
I went to the hut of old Bert, the ex-convict Lottie was lodging with. Did he know, I wondered, that his concubine had betrothed herself that afternoon?
The hut was tucked away at the end of Back Lane, in a darkness so thick I could barely see the edge of the street. I walked towards the faint light shafting beneath the door. Unlike Blackwell’s mudbrick home, Bert’s hut was made almost entirely of wood, and it leaned dramatically to one side. A thin line of smoke curled up from the chimney. When I knocked on the door, it was Lottie herself who answered.
She sighed resignedly. “Had a feeling you’d show up tonight.”
Peering over her shoulder, I could see no sign of Bert, just a small firelit hovel with a crooked table and a single, narrow sleeping pallet.
“You can’t marry Owen,” I said bluntly.
“No word of congratulations, Nell?” Her words were thick with sarcasm.
“Why are you doing this?” I asked.
She folded her arms across her chest. “You know why I’m doing this. Because I got more than three years of my sentence left and I don’t want to spend them weaving cloth and sleeping beside an old man.”
I softened my voice. “Is lodging with Bert truly so bad you’d risk your life by marrying Owen?” I wanted our old friendship, our old closeness. But Lottie had her guard up.
She laughed coldly. “Lodging with him? Is that what you imagine this is? Just lodging with the man?”
The bitterness in her words chilled me.
“And do you imagine things with Owen will be any better?” I asked.
Lottie held my gaze for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “The thing is done,” she said finally. “The papers have been signed. We’re to be married on Thursday. Leaving for Sydney on Friday. It’s too late for any of this.”
*
I heard the soldiers marching again that night. Crunch and thud from the direction of the barracks. This time I was wide awake; thoughts of Lottie and Owen keeping me from sleep.
I slipped out of bed and peeked through the curtain. My window looked out over the front of the farm, but I could see little in the darkness. I pulled on my dress and boots and slipped out of the house.
One of Leaver’s farmhands was leaning against the stone fence at the front of the property, blowing a line of silver pipe smoke up into the dark. I stood beside him and watched in silence as a parade of redcoats strode out into the wilderness.
“Is there trouble?” I squinted into the night, trying to pick out Blackwell’s figure.
The farmhand took his pipe out from between his teeth. “Just a drill, I’d say.”
“A drill?”
“The Rum Corps likes to be prepared.”
“Prepared for what?” I asked. “Another rebel uprising?”
He nodded.
I frowned. This had to be a new development. When I’d been staying with Blackwell, I’d never known him to leave in the middle of the night. I was a light sleeper. I was sure I would have heard.
“The governor fears another rebellion?” I asked. I thought of the Irishman in the chain gang, his blood disappearing into the mud. “Has something happened?”
The farmhand shrugged. “He’s been fearing another rebellion since Castle Hill.”
I pulled my shawl tighter around me. I realised I was fearing another rebellion too. “Were you here in Parramatta?” I asked. “During the uprising?”
He nodded.
“What was it like?”
&nbs
p; He took a long draw on his pipe. “Phil Cunningham raised an army of croppies at Castle Hill. Went from farm to farm recruiting men, taking weapons. There were a mad panic here when we heard it were happening.” He chuckled. “Reverend Marsden jumped in a boat and fled the place like a scared cat.”
I felt a small smile in the corner of my lips.
“Croppies had no chance though,” the farmhand said. “The redcoats marched out to meet them and the battle only lasted a few minutes. Could hear gunshots for days, mind you, what with the lobsters sent out to find all the rebels who got away.”
I felt a sudden tightness in my throat. Owen’s story about what had happened at his family’s cottage echoed at the back of my mind.
I went out into the street, staring through the darkness the soldiers had disappeared into. I wrapped my arms around myself and shivered.
It felt as though this fragile colony was teetering. I had little doubt the army would quell another rebel uprising as quickly as they had the first. But I knew they would not do so without blood being shed. And I knew if the croppies rose up in battle, Blackwell would be a target. Would likely be the first to die.
I whirled around at the sound of footsteps. Found Dan Brady standing in the road behind me. Had he been watching the soldiers too?
I felt the sudden urge to hurry back to the farmhouse. But I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing he unnerved me.
“I thought you’d be out there pounding down the jail doors,” I said. “Trying to free those two croppies they locked up. Or are they not as important to you as Patrick Owen?”
Brady chuckled humourlessly. “If we rose up every time a croppy were mistreated there’d be none of us left.”
One of Us Buried Page 15
