Four

After four interminable days on the water, the ship from Moreton Bay cleared The Heads and docked at King's Wharf. It was a gloomy afternoon, the sky a slate gray mass hanging low over the town, threatening rain. A hard wind blew at their backs. Besides his time at Moreton Bay, Michael had worked every day of the last five years on this waterfront, and as the sailors secured the sloop, he stood at the rail and scanned the port, searching for familiar faces. But there were only strangers. A few peered warily at the ragged group of convicts as they shuffled down the gangway in their chains. Most tried not to look.

Not that anyone who'd known Michael Dunn would recognize the pitiful sod who stepped off that sloop. His skin was reddened by the sun and darkened with dirt, his hair matted and greasy, and he was stones lighter than he'd been. He hadn't shaved in weeks. His jacket had been stolen months ago, and he no longer owned a hat—only a grimy pair of trousers with holes at the knees, a ripped government-issue shirt, and shoes worn through at the soles.

But it wasn't just his appearance that had changed. Michael looked at the scene on the wharf through different eyes than the man who'd left six months ago. That man had belonged here, at least to a point. He'd had a place. A use. A sense of rightness, and a burning outrage at his conviction. But now, he had nothing. Less than nothing.

The rain began to fall as he was marched across George Street alongside the other convicts. It started as a heavy mist, but between one stride and the next, the skies opened to release a torrent. It hammered down as they slogged up the hill, muffling the sights and sounds of the town, turning the streets to mud and plastering Michael's shirt to his back.

And yet, he felt nothing. Only a simmering sense of loathing.

This absence, the dearth of feeling was beginning to unnerve him. He'd expected it on the journey. The dark hold of a ship always felt like a place between, not quite real. But here—here he ought to begin to feel more normal, oughtn't he?

The group was brought to the grounds of the prisoners' barracks, to the blacksmith, where one by one the irons were cleaved off. It hurt like the devil when the smith hammered the rivets that held Michael's shackles in place. Then all at once they fell away and . . . He'd expected relief at finally being free of the irons, but oddly enough, as he took his first few steps, he felt only their loss, unstable, like a ship without an anchor.

And what lay beneath the shackles . . . the raw, exposed flesh. It was repulsive. He couldn't bear to look at it.

They were brought into the barracks proper, to the mess hall. The government men who lived there had already had their noon meal and returned to work in the city. There was no end-of-day meal on offer, so Michael and the others from Moreton Bay were given bread and water, separated so as to not get into any trouble, and sent to one of the twelve sleeping wards.

The ward was eerily quiet as Michael and his guard entered, their footsteps echoing in the great yawning space of shadow and silence. There must have been a hundred flaxen hammocks strung neatly from great beams of eucalyptus wood.

The guard assigned him one, then left without a word.

Alone, Michael stood for a moment, feeling the quiet, the beating of his own heart. And for the first time since they'd landed, he felt almost himself. The space was clean, cleaner than anywhere he'd been in months, with the minty, lemony sharpness of the eucalyptus wood permeating each breath he took. The paned windows gave a clear, if distorted, view of the rain and gloom. The wood floors shone in the dim light, the walls were newly whitewashed.

There were no more orders, so not knowing what else to do, he lay in his hammock and stared at the cavernous ceiling, listening to the rain.

Where would he be assigned? A government crew of some kind, no doubt. No respectable master would accept a man so fresh from Moreton Bay.

They'd taken his irons off, so it wouldn't be a chain gang. Probably, it would be something in the city, a building crew or the brick works. He could only hope the labor would be tolerable, whatever it was. With a decent overseer.

Anyway, it was out of his hands.

He was just drifting off to sleep when the working men came in, weary from their day's labor. The space filled with their rough voices. They brought out whatever scrapings of food they'd been able to stash away in their pockets and ate, laughing and talking. Some played cards.

Michael didn't move.

A man from the group nearest to him approached his hammock and peered down at him warily. "You're one of the lot from Moreton Bay, then?" His tone was cautious but good-natured.

Michael growled, and the intruder quickly backed away to the safety of his mates.

At last, the warden called lights out, and the men climbed into their hammocks. Gradually, the talking was replaced by whispers, then snores. Michael slept.

And by the grace of God, he didn't dream.

The next morning dawned clear. He didn't dare leave his few possessions in the sleeping quarters—they'd be stolen for sure—so he took his things with him as he fell in with the crowd of men shuffling through the muddy yard to the privy and then to the mess. The meat stew the cook's boy slopped into his bowl was salty and thin, but it seemed a king's ration after the allotment at Moreton Bay. He'd forgotten what a full belly felt like.

When they'd finished eating, the men around him got up and went off to whatever work they'd been assigned. Michael was left sitting alone, staring at his empty tin bowl.

The dull sense of panic grew as silence settled back over the room. What was he to do next? Where were the others from Moreton Bay? They weren't here. But he'd been given no instruction. Perhaps he was supposed to know what to do. Perhaps they'd discipline him if—

"Dunn?" a gruff voice sounded. Relief coursed through Michael as he looked up to see a redcoat staring at him expectantly.

"Aye." This was it.

"Come on, then." The man motioned for him to get up.

Obediently, Michael rose, slung his sack over his shoulder, and followed the guard into the courtyard.

Bah. He squinted into the light. The orange brick of the barracks building blazed bright in the morning sun, blinding him. It was already hot. A thin mist rose from the cobblestones—yesterday's rain, steaming off.

"This way." He'd expected the soldier to lead him to the court rooms where he'd be assigned to a gang, but instead they moved toward the front gate.

A man stood just inside the courtyard, leaning against the wall. The sun reflected off the light-colored stone, making it almost as painful to look at as the brick. Michael's eyes were dazzled. It was hard to tell, but from the way the man was positioned, he appeared to be waiting for something.

The man came away from the wall and walked toward them. He was dressed well—a jacket, waistcoat, and clean linen beneath. Slight build with pale hair under a tall hat—

Jesus . It was Davey.

"Mikey?" Davey squinted, craning his neck. The rising sun was behind Michael, and it seemed Davey was having just as much trouble seeing anything. Or perhaps he simply didn't believe the man walking toward him was, in fact, his old friend. What the devil was he doing here?

"You're David Flemming?" the soldier asked.

"Aye." Davey's eyes never left Michael.

The redcoat handed him a folded piece of paper. "His pass. It's only good for today. See he's delivered by nightfall."

Davey finally looked from Michael to the guard. "Do you have clothes for ‘im? He's hardly—"

"Clothing is the responsibility of the master," the soldier recited in a bored tone.

Davey knew better than to argue. "Of course."

His task complete, the redcoat nodded, then turned and quickly walked away.

As soon as the guard was out of earshot, Davey leaned toward Michael, pitching his voice low. "Yer a sight for sore eyes." He grinned. "I've got ye a place, a good one."

Michael stared at him. "A—a place?"

The dumb confusion in his words hung between them, and Davey's face fell, his eyes darkening with concern. "Aye. A place . Of employment."

Michael blinked. What did he mean, employment ? What was this?

"What have they done to ye, man?" Davey spoke softly, gazing at Michael with narrowed eyes. Then, louder, "I'll tell ye more on the way." He turned and started toward the gate where another guard was waiting to search them on their way out. "We'll stop back home before we go," he called over his shoulder. "I've a suit of clothes ye can have."

Davey's place was a quick drive from the prisoners' barracks. It wasn't the small house they'd once shared, but a new shop, the one Davey had taken up since his wife and children had come to Sydney. He didn't say so, but Michael knew he wouldn't be welcome inside. Not in his current state. He'd scare customers away. So he waited in the wagon, watching the bustle of the street while Davey ducked into the shop, then reemerged with a rucksack stuffed full and pulling at the seams.

He tossed it to Michael, and Michael opened it, shaking out the contents. A shaving kit and a comb, a copy of The Australian , and a new set of clothes. Fine ones. Much too fine for a road gang or a field crew.

What kind of position was he going to?

His friend heaved himself up to the box, then fished in his pocket and threw a short piece of twisted tobacco into Michael's lap. "You still have a pipe?"

Michael grunted. "But—"

"Ye can pay me back." The firmness in Davey's tone broached no argument.

Michael used his friend's pocket knife to cut the twist as Davey maneuvered the wagon north out of the city. "I suppose you'll want to know where we're goin'?" He shot Michael a sly grin, clearly pleased with whatever this scheme was.

Why did Davey's good humor feel so ominous? As if it were a trick. "Yes."

That searching, pitying concern fell back onto his friend's face. That, too, put Michael on edge. As if he were being inspected, and failing. But thankfully, Davey quickly looked away and began to speak.

"We're off to the Hawkesbury, to a farm there."

So it was farm work? That was hardly any better than a chain gang.

"But you willna be doin' field work," Davey added quickly. "Or not much of it. The owner makes candles and sells ‘em to us at the shop. Her husband died four months ago, and she's got possession of his farm. She wants to make a go of it, to keep a hold of the land. But she canna read, you see, and that's not makin' things any easier for her. We thought—Emily and me—we thought you could help. Read contracts for her, help her with runnin' things, like . . . like a secretary mi—"

A kangaroo hopped across their path, startling the horse, and the wagon swayed dangerously. "Whoa, now." Davey pulled on the reins, bringing them to a halt. Then he clucked to the nag, and they continued.

"Anyway. We thought you could help, and it's a sight better than government work, so I called in a favor from my old mate at the office, and he got ye the assignment. Wasna easy to do." Davey looked over at him, brows raised, as if expecting a thank you.

Michael stared at him, but the words wouldn't come. He nodded woodenly, then looked away.

For a while they sat in awkward silence, listening to the plodding of the horse's feet and the creaking of the wheels as they jounced over the rutted road.

A secretary. He was to be the secretary of a widow farmer. The words played over and over in Michael's head, but they didn't make any sense.

It wouldn't work.

It was a good assignment, that was true, but he couldn't be a widow's secretary. Not in this state. He could barely speak to his best friend.

And if he failed, she would send him back. With that mark against him, he'd be clapped back in irons for sure, sent to a road gang, finally worked to death—

A bird squawked loudly in the trees overhead, and Michael jumped.

What the devil was wrong with him?

He forced a long, slow breath. He should be happy. The sun shone brightly, though the heat was tempered by the dappled shade. A warm breeze blew through his hair, bringing with it the perfumy smell of acacia blooms. He pulled at his pipe, drawing the smoke into his lungs, then exhaled slowly.

Nothing changed. That acrid sense of distrustful revulsion still simmered inside him.

There was no guard searching for an excuse to flog him. No threatening word or glowering look from another prisoner. Nothing at all to be afraid of. Even if this new position was tenuous, in this moment he should be enjoying himself, and yet . . .

He couldn't. He just . . . couldn't.

He closed his eyes and rubbed them hard.

Davey shifted beside him on the bench. "I think you'll like it there, on a farm. It'll be peaceful."

Peaceful . How could his friend be so daft? So blind? A widow's secretary. Peace. Bah . Michael would ruin it, just as he'd ruined everything else in his bloody life.

But then, Davey didn't really know him, did he? It was all lies and deceit. Further evidence of Michael's villainy.

When the sun reached its zenith, they stopped and sat under a towering lemon gum tree, allowing the horse to drink from a stream as they ate the meal Mrs. Flemming had packed: dark wheaten bread with butter, boiled eggs, and spring radishes. After six months of plain hominy with the occasional half-rotten bit of meat, it seemed unfathomable that food could taste so good. And for a moment, when Davey got up to take a piss and Michael was alone, reclined against the white, papery bark of the tree, his nostrils full of its fresh earthy scent, he almost felt the pleasure of it.

But then Davey returned and stood over him with a raised brow and a look of pitying disapproval. "Do you want to change before we get there?"

"No." Michael's answer was partly because he knew better than to put himself, as dirty as he was, into clean clothes, and partly out of foolish spite. He didn't want Davey's pity.

They climbed back into the wagon. Heavy silence settled between them once more as Michael packed another bowl, smoked, and glared at the pretty day.

What an ass he was being. Davey deserved better. Michael pulled on his pipe and racked his mind for something to say—anything to break this intolerable tension.

"What's she like?" His voice sounded coarse and sour in the sweet air.

Davey looked at him blankly.

"The widow," Michael clarified. "Mrs. . . ."

"Blackwell." Davey brightened up, clearly pleased that Michael had asked. "I dinna ken her well. ‘Twas by chance she wandered into the store lookin' to sell her candles and honey." He paused, thinking. "She's Irish. Came a convict, though I dinna ken what she did to get here." That was no surprise. People rarely spoke of such things in the colony. "I believe she came from Cork, from the city. But she knows farming. She must have had a farm before that. Or her family did."

Candles and honey. Michael hadn't tasted honey in . . . years. Since Darnalay.

"She's companionable, though a bit . . ." Davey searched for the word. " Wary . I dinna get the impression she's lived an easy life."

Michael grunted. People who came to New South Wales had never lived an easy life. If they had, they wouldn't be here. "How old?"

"How old is she?" Davey clarified. Michael nodded. "Older than us, I'd think. ‘Tis hard to know." His friend was quiet for a moment. Then he turned his head to look at Michael, and his blue eyes took on an intensity Michael knew all too well. A scolding was coming. "I told her you were a good man, loyal and hard workin'. And I still believe it. But you must stay away from the drink, Mikey. It does ye no good."

Michael grunted. As irritating as it was, his friend wasn't wrong. If he hadn't been drunk, he might have recognized the man in the alley. Thought better of his idiot impulse to go after him . . .

"Promise me? Mrs. Blackwell's a good woman. She needs a steady hand."

Michael opened his mouth, then closed it again. He couldn't lie. He wasn't a good man, and he had very little will when it came to drink, no matter how hard he tried. So he didn't answer at all. He only glared at the road ahead and said nothing.

After another half hour of oppressive silence, the wagon finally turned onto a dirt drive lined by gum trees.

"This is it." Davey forced his lips into a false smile.

A modest brick and clapboard cottage came into view, surrounded by a garden flush with spring vegetables. Chickens scratched in the yard. A barn stood to the side, and further back lay an orchard, with a cow grazing on pasture nearby. Fields sprawled in the distance, with some convict huts just beyond, and a line of trees that marked some kind of creek, or river—the Hawkesbury, most likely.

It looked like some damn painting Father would hang in his library, then never look at again. The dull simmer of panic that had been roiling in his veins ever since Michael got off the ship swelled into a rushing torrent.

He did not belong here.