‘He was a labourer for a government gang, building bridges, at that time. I promised that, as soon as I could, I’d work out a way to help him escape.
‘He urged me to hurry, because he didn’t know how much more he could take. He seemed heartily sick of the orders, the work, the oppression by those beastly gaolers and their whips. And he was in such a rush to find you. He’d made a promise to save you, he said. He didn’t want to grind himself to the bone in the convict system while there was a chance you were here and alive.
‘While I was putting a plan in place to try to save him, he took matters into his own hands. He attacked his gaolor and tried to escape. But they caught him. He was sent to Macquarie Harbour, a place so fearsome the devil himself knocks before entering – yet once again your da escaped. He’s nothing if not a rebel.’
‘And then what?’
Lachlan shakes his head. ‘I wish I could tell you that he made it out of the fearsome west coast alive. But there’s been no further sign of him. He may have headed north along the coast, or over the ranges towards Hobart Town. Still, they haven’t caught him. So he may be out there. And there’s no fiercer man to take on that adventure than your da. Don’t give up hope – I haven’t.’
Lachlan’s story continues all the way home, then winds its way inside by the fire, where he sits you down in an armchair and brings you crumpets, as if you were a lady and he your servant. It’s a wonderful little home that he’s built for himself, using timber and clay from the forest all around.
‘Thank you,’ you say, a little embarrassed. ‘I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve such kindness.’
Lachlan sits next to you, and looks into your eyes. ‘You deserve every kindness under the sun,’ he tells you. ‘It’s the masters of this brutal colony who don’t deserve the luxuries they have. I’m sorry I couldn’t get your da away from them sooner.’
‘I’d like to help you in your work to free Ireland,’ you tell him. ‘I’ll do whatever it takes.’
Lachlan gives you another of his grins. ‘I’ll be sure to let you know.’
YOU FALL INTO a homely rhythm of cooking, gardening, and eating meals fit for royalty – roast chicken, and blackberry pie sweetened with honey. It’s the first time that Van Diemen’s Land has not felt like an exile from home: it feels, for all its thick forest and strange bird calls, a place that could become home.
Your first political act, when it comes a few weeks later, is to travel into Hobart Town alone to pick up a priest’s robes from the cleaner’s. The robes will be a disguise for an Irish rebel, who is going to attempt to escape from convict labour in Van Diemen’s Land to America, where he can live as a free man. It doesn’t sound too hard – picking up the robes from the cleaner’s, that is. Escaping to America sounds impossible.
At the cleaner’s, you hand over the paper token Lachlan gave you and the cleaner nods, goes out the back, and returns with a heavy, soft parcel wrapped in string and brown paper.
You didn’t realise a priest’s robes would weigh so much. You can’t fit the parcel into the satchel you brought, so you hug it to your chest as you walk out of the shop, waiting for a voice to shout: Hey, you! Stop!
There is no shout, though; no whistle. You are simply a servant-girl, going about her business.
You are within sight of your horse-and-cart when you stop short. Standing beside the cart, their arms crossed, are Mr Tilsome and a constable in uniform.
Your old master is looking right at you. ‘That’s the one,’ he says to the constable. ‘I thought I recognised her.’
Just then, Sarah runs up beside you, gasping for breath. ‘Run!’ she cries. ‘The master’s here, and – oh God, he’s already seen you!’
She stares at him open-mouthed, realising the trouble she’s going to get in for having been seen warning you.
Should you run, or stay and lie to Mr Tilsome and the soldier about what you’re doing here?
If you run, go to scene 38.
If you stay where you are and lie, go to scene 39.
To read a fact file on Irish political prisoners in Van Diemen’s Land click here, then return to this page to make your choice.
You grab Sarah’s hand, tucking the parcel under one arm. Your heart is pounding. There is no time for thought, only flight.
‘Run!’ you cry, and for once Sarah doesn’t tell you to stop and be sensible, because she can see the angry constable closing in, and she knows she’s in as much trouble as you are.
Your feet pound the cobblestones. You duck and weave through the crowd. It’s hard to run holding hands, so you let go of Sarah.
A whistle is shrieking. You nearly knock down an old lady with a basket as you shove past her. Cries and shouts ripple in the air. A man makes a wild lunge for you, and you swerve. You glance back over your shoulder. Sarah is slowing. The man who missed you is lumbering towards her. She ducks to get out of his way and stumbles towards the edge of the dock, towards the water.
‘Sarah!’ you scream. She’s lost her footing. Like a doll, she tumbles over the edge and into the black water in a wreath of bubbles, her skirt floating and tangling like a jellyfish.
You can’t
