Now you know why he seemed so anxious when he told you about Da. He must have been worried you’d do exactly this. The sound of his horse’s hooves fades into the bush.
Da’s voice breaks the pained silence. ‘I’d best introduce you to the gang, then,’ he says. ‘They’re off getting firewood.’
He sticks his fingers in his mouth and whistles piercingly. After a few minutes, six men make their way back to the campsite, each carrying an armful of wood, eyeing you curiously.
You wipe away a tear and get ready to meet Da’s gang. Lachlan’s gone, and you suppose you won’t see Sarah again, either. These men will now be your new friends and family …
To continue with the story, go to scene 34.
You look into Lachlan’s kind, hopeful eyes. ‘I’d be honoured to be your wife,’ you tell him.
You know you’re still young, but you’ve never felt so certain of anything before in your life. Every detail around you seems brighter than before, as if this place, its circle of trees, is etching itself into your memory for safekeeping.
‘Hip, hip, hooray!’ shouts Da, and an echo from the valley replies.
Hooray!
Hooray!
Hooray!
‘This requires celebratory billy tea for all!’ Da cries. ‘And now I have so much to tell you, my darling!’ He gives a shout for the rest of his gang to come and join you.
Lachlan slips the gumleaf around your finger, with a kiss on your cheek. As you’re still a convict, you’ll have to apply to the Lieutenant Governor for permission to marry, but after that, Lachlan promises to buy you a fine ring in Hobart Town.
You put the gumleaf into your pocket. You will keep it forever, to remind you of this day.
To continue with the story, go to scene 36.
It is thirteen years later – 1840 in Richmond, Van Diemen’s Land. The hens are clucking in the yard. You’re in the kitchen stirring porridge for breakfast, your bare feet cool on the flagstones. Little Catherine, still sleepy-eyed and warm, cuddles your leg as you cook, while your son Abel rushes about on the dewy grass outside among the sunshine and hens.
Your husband, Lachlan, is away in town on ‘business’ – really, helping another Irish political prisoner – but you’re not lonely, for your dear friend Sarah was finally granted her ticket of leave, and her cottage is just down the road. Sarah and Mike’s daughter loves to play with Abel and Catherine, and Sarah has another baby on the way, too.
On the rare bad days, when the weather turns foul or money runs short or rats get into the oats, you always stop and remind yourself of how far you’ve come. You were only three years older than Abel is now when you were struggling for survival on the streets of London, your ma dead and your da in gaol.
The darkness and filth in Newgate Prison; the storm you survived at sea, when the foal was born; the time you found Sarah in Hobart Town gaol and persuaded the master to take her home – all of these have now become stories that your children ask to hear again and again.
You only wish your da had been here to see your children grow up – but, to your sorrow, you have not seen him these last thirteen years. There’s been no word of his capture or death in the Hobart Town Gazette, but you believe he must have died in the bush. The Shadow Gang seems to have dispersed – at least, there’s no news of their activities in the papers. Nevertheless, you include Da – or his soul – in your prayers every night.
Your son Abel may be close to the same age as you were when you lived in London, but by contrast, he is sturdy, cheeky, and can read and write well – though he’d prefer to be running wild in the bush. He rides horses bareback and catches frogs in his bare hands to show little Catherine, who is fascinated – you’re proud to see she’s a tough, brave little spirit, like yourself.
Suddenly Abel comes rushing through the door. ‘There’s an old tramp in the yard, Ma!’ he cries. ‘I should tell him to go away, shouldn’t I, as Da’s not here?’
Lachlan always tells Abel it’s his job to protect his mother and sister while Lachlan is away, and the boy takes his responsibility seriously.
You frown. ‘Don’t do that, Abel. I’m sure he’s just hungry. Fetch the bread, and I’ll cut him a piece.’
The old man appears in the doorway. His face is as lined as crumpled paper, and he wears a big oilskin coat. You are surprised to see his blue eyes glistening with tears.
You step towards him, holding out the bread. ‘There’s food here for you, sir, if you’re hungry.’
‘You don’t recognise me, do you?’ he asks. His voice is husky, like a dry leaf. Catherine begins to cry, and you hoist her onto your hip. Your mind is a blur.
Abel’s eyes grow wide. The boy is always the first to catch on, his bright mind leaps and bounds ahead of anyone else’s. He squeals: ‘Grandpa!’ and throws himself across the room at the old man.
Your da drops to his knees and scoops up your son in a bear hug. ‘How did you know it was me?’ he asks, half-laughing, half-crying, running his fingers through Abel’s hair. ‘We’ve never even met!’
‘I just knew!’ Abel says. ‘I felt it in my tummy.’
‘Oh, you’re a good boy,’ says your da, squeezing him tight, and you run across the room and throw yourself onto the heap of your family, arms and bodies all jumbled and pressed in together.
You are kissing Abel. Da is kissing you. Catherine is being kissed by everyone, and laughing and flapping her hands.
‘Welcome home,’ you tell your da.
Catherine is shouting ‘Gan-pa! Gan-pa!’ She’s
