Cover

About the Book

William Buchanan lived an extraordinary life. Born a slave on a plantation in Jamaica, he escaped the gallows more than once. His part in the slave uprisings of the 1830s led to his transportation across the world as one of the convicts sent to New South Wales.

This is a novel not only about a boy who fought against all odds in search of freedom, but also about a world not so long ago, when the violence of colonisation was in full force. It is a story of Jamaica, and Australia, but at its heart, it is a story about how one lives a life, whether slave or free man.

Steeped in history but full of lessons that resonate for us today, the thrilling tale of Will Buchanan’s survival and fate is told in a singular voice, from a startling new talent in Australian fiction.

Dedication

For my family, for the Ancestors and for William

Prologue

Colony of NSW, 1851

I wake with a start. Been dreaming. Dreaming bout a light that shine bright, strong, hot, even though all round is a cool, shadowy darkness. A light that call to me. Softly, softly, if only I can reach it. Touch it. Pull it out of the darkness and keep it safe. I reach out for that light as if still in the dream, but it start to fade and I wake to a body that feel heavy. Heavy as lead, and me clothes, me skin is wet, and I cannot even seem to lift me head. If only the wetness going turn into light and I can dream again. I feel round with me hands to discover rough cotton sheets and they too is wet, filled up with sweat.

What is that smell?

Must be the sickness. The sickness that been weighing me down, causing me to sleep, to moan, to dream the same dream. A dream bout the hot, strong light of me childhood. I sense it gathering, gathering all round me, and it feel so good.

Where is it? Where is the place I been dreaming of?

A place in a memory from a long-forgotten past that, up till now, must be stayed hidden. A memory that live on still. Faded, the colour drained right out of it. I need that light, the dreaming light, to see the power of colour memory deserve.

The door creak open. Footsteps on the wooden floor. Voices just out of reach.

‘He’s awake,’ a woman’s voice say.

An answer, a man’s voice. ‘It seems so. We must be quick, get him to drink the broth you have made.’

A hand. I look down, is the same colour as the sheets. A hand that reach out and wipe me forehead with a wide, cool cloth.

It smell of … what does it smell of? The smell is known to me and yet I can’t remember.

‘Lavender,’ the voice say, as though hearing me thoughts.