Seven gems, and seven men in the Shadow Gang … it seems right, somehow. You give your favourite gemstone, the glistening rainbow stone, to your da. Inky the forger gets the stone that’s dark-red like the ink or wax seals he can forge, and the brothers Sam and Sean (you refuse to call them Useful and Useless) get the two matching bright-green stones.
You pause to think, then you give Dash the stone that’s black as his hair. One-Shot gets the clear, star-white stone, just as he always takes a clear shot; and Wombat, who knows the ways of the bush, gets the dark-forest-green gem.
‘Mine’s a fire opal,’ says Da. ‘Williams, that’s a ruby.’
Da inspects all the stones and names them: there’s a fire opal, a ruby, two emeralds, a diamond, an onyx, and the dark-green malachite.
Although you were never schooled properly in reading and writing, thanks to your lessons during the voyage to Van Diemen’s Land, as you think about the names of the gems, and the sounds of the letters, a puzzle starts to come together in your mind …
F for fire opal, R for ruby, EE for the two emeralds… then diamond, onyx and malachite…
‘It spells freedom!’ you exclaim.
DA NODS IN amazement, and Lachlan murmurs: ‘You’re extraordinary … I mean, that’s extraordinary.’
For the next hour, you share stories with your da, of his incredible escape from Macquarie Harbour, and of your voyage to Australia. But all too soon, the sun starts to sink behind the trees, and you have to go. Your da kisses your forehead.
‘It may be a long time before we meet again, my dearest,’ he says. ‘There’s a price on my head. Once you have your ticket of leave, I would love to join you, but until then I’ll have to lay low.’
Lachlan salutes him. ‘Captain Shadow, it has been an honour and a privilege.’
‘Look after my daughter, O’Riordan.’
‘She’s an astonishing person who has endured more than I can imagine. She’s far braver and wiser than I,’ replies Lachlan. ‘But yes, with her permission, I daresay we’ll try to look after each other.’
Your heart swells.
‘Goodbye, Captain Shadow,’ you whisper. ‘Stay free.’
You and Lachlan walk back into the bush, arm in arm.
To continue with the story, go to scene 42.
A couple of weeks have passed inside the bleak walls of the Hobart Town gaol. All hope that you will ever be free has fast slipped away.
This morning you have been shepherded, along with all the other women, into the courtyard for display. This is what happens when masters come to choose a new convict servant. You don’t know how to feel during these sessions. Part of you feels eager to please, desperate to be taken away from the prison, hopeful that you’ll be chosen by a master who at least feeds you well and treats you fairly. But part of you feels angry at being so powerless, the way all of you convicts can be pushed around and traded like animals.
From talking to Sarah, you know that you might be taken away by a man who will beat you, and there’s nothing you can do about it. Some of the convict women gaze up beseechingly; others stare back at the men with a steady, furious scowl. Most of the women, including you, seem to spend these regular sessions looking mutely at their toes.
‘Mister Lachlan Seamus O’Riordan,’ the overseer announces to the guard, and a man is ushered into the courtyard.
Your ears prick up at the Irish name. It almost seems like you’ve heard it before.
Lachlan … Seamus … O’Ri— Oh! LSO!
You head snaps up, and there he is: lanky body wrapped in an overcoat, ginger hair falling over his brow, and pale-blue eyes as sweet as the summer’s sky.
‘I have your handkerchief!’ you cry out, before you can stop yourself. The women around you titter as you mumble, ‘I mean … they … they took it from me, when I came here.’
You feel as stupid as the time when you were ten that you tripped over carrying a tray of eggs.
‘Silence!’ snarls the prison guard.
But Mr O’Riordan is looking at you very kindly. ‘How could I forget you?’ he asks, and there is tenderness in his voice.
The prison guard looks astonished, and a little disgusted. Mr O’Riordan notices, and immediately changes his tone.
‘She’ll do. Come with me,’ he orders with curt authority.
‘Polly over there is a much stronger worker, and better behaved by a country mile,’ the guard admonishes him.
But Mr O’Riordan is having none of that, and you are out the door, by his side, within minutes.
He leads you to his horse-and-cart, has you sit up beside him rather than on the back, and heads out immediately towards his homestead, which he tells you is at Crayfish Point, where the Derwent River widens and mingles with the sea.
You are so stunned by what’s just happened that you can barely utter a word.
Then Mr O’Riordan shocks you further by taking one of your hands in his. ‘Now, tell me what I’ve wondered since I first met you,’ he says softly. ‘Are you, or are you not, the daughter of Patrick Sean Ryan?’
Your heart is pounding giddily. You take a deep breath and squeeze his hand. ‘Yes! He’s my da. Tell me everything you know!’ You pause, remembering your manners. ‘If you please, Mr O’Riordan, sir.’
‘Call me Lachlan,’ he replies, and the broadest grin you’ve ever seen almost splits his face in two. ‘Well … where do I begin? Your da and I know each other through the Irish independence movement. He fought bravely in the Irish Rebellion, I’m told – I wasn’t born yet back then …’
Lachlan tells you he is nineteen years old, from County Cork, Ireland, and that he and his father came out to Van Diemen’s Land of their own free will three
