Three

"You . Dunn. You're to come with me." The redcoat bent and unlocked Michael's leg irons from the chain that connected him to the five other men in line. It fell slack with an empty clink. One of the two guards marching the gang to the worksite barked an order, and the long line of men moved away.

The soldier who'd unlocked Michael rose and grasped his arm roughly, pushing him back down the road the way they'd come.

Michael stumbled, free of the gang now, but nearly losing his balance as the irons on his ankles jerked taut. He'd been certain the redcoat—Grigsby was his name, the one with the mustache and the taunting glare—had come for Whit, the man behind him in line. Whit was a fool. He'd openly stared at one of the officer's wives working in the garden while they'd been marched past yesterday. The woman had noticed, and of course she'd reported it. It was a surefire ticket to the whipping post.

But the man had not come for Whit. He'd come for Michael.

"What did I do?" He looked over his shoulder and glowered at the guard.

In answer, Grigsby raised his rifle and poked the cold steel into Michael's back. "Move."

And so they went, down the road and away from the worksite where the gang was building a new stone barracks for future unfortunates. Back toward the rough, slab huts, where Michael and the others had just finished their meager breakfast.

"Get a move on." The metal dug deeper into Michael's back.

When Michael had first arrived in this hell, months ago—he'd lost count of how many—he would have argued with the man. He'd have pressed to know why he was being singled out and made the point that he couldn't very well walk quickly with chains shortening his every stride. But that had been before. Before the hunger, the solitary confinements, the floggings. Now, he just shuffled along, head down as he examined the rutted, muddy road and the tips of his worn-out shoes.

Why was a pointless question. It didn't matter why. The punishments were unavoidable, like the sun coming up each day or the river flowing out to sea.

At least he was accustomed to them by now. He no longer flinched at the smarting pain of his ever-healing back. Nor did he notice the bite of the irons around his ankles, the gnawing hunger in his gut, the burning of the sun on his neck, or the press of the hot air in his lungs. The smell of his own stench.

His gaze fell on the whipping post in the distance, the buffed wood shone evil in the morning sun, ready for its next victim. They were going to flog him again. For nothing. Maybe the wounds would fester this time, and he'd die.

Grigsby jabbed him in the back, and Michael lost his balance. He fell to his knees, bracing himself with his hands to keep his face out of the dirt.

"What the devil are you up to? Get up, man." the soldier barked, as if he hadn't been the one to push Michael to the ground.

Michael scrambled to his feet and stumbled forward, showing only placid obedience. The soldiers of Moreton Bay were just as miserable as the prisoners. That was a fact. Just as isolated, nearly as hungry. Some had their wives with them, but not Grigsby. Tormenting a man like Michael was the only pleasure this swad ever got, along with his daily allotment of rum.

Michael expected to be marched toward the store and the whipping post. But instead, Grigsby stopped at the dilapidated slab hut Michael shared with six other men.

"Get your things."

Michael looked back at the man. "What—"

"Get. Your. Things." The soldier glanced over his shoulder.

Michael followed the redcoat's gaze. A sloop was tied to the dock. He could see the new prisoners being marched off it, with a few others standing to the side, waiting to embark to be brought back to Sydney.

Back to Sydney.

He looked at Grigsby, searching the man's face, but the soldier was expressionless.

Could six months really have passed?

Sydney —the color, the bustle, the people. The smells of good food and the taste of rum. The feel of a woman's skin—

The cold iron of Grigsby's gun jammed between Michael's shoulder blades, nearly knocking him down again. "Have you gone daft, man? The ship won't wait." The extra bit of loathing in the redcoat's voice and the sharp jabs of the gun made sense now. He was jealous.

Michael grunted and stumbled through the low doorway. It was too dark to see anything, but he walked the three paces to the dirty straw he'd slept on for the last six months by rote. His hand trembled as he slipped it underneath to collect the few things he'd managed to bring with him.

A comb. His pipe and tobacco pouch—empty these last six months—an extra shirt that had once been clean, and a rough linen sack to carry it all in.

All his worldly possessions in hand, Michael straightened. The chains of his leg irons clanged as he shuffled into the light.