I look round at all the faces, wonder what they thinking. Remembered how Stella held me hand tight and how hers did tremble when Busha Davis gave little Pell a beating. And I sense all the convicts watching, no matter how hard they look on the outside, they is trembling on the inside. Holding fast to whatever little dignity them have left. When the whipping over, little Pete already passed out slumped against the whipping post, coming back to life when the scourger pour a bucket of brine on his whipped back. Fall into the arms of a mate helping him off to the sick room.

Is then I come to understand me father better. See is the Mother Country teach him to use the lash. Teach him to think kindness is the cruelty of keeping everybody in them place.

Christmas long over. Manage to survive three more month of freezing cold and hard work, all the while waiting for the Moffatt to be fitted out, the big convict ship that going transport us to the other side of the world. One day is all preparation to leave, get on board, the next, we left in our bunks doing nothing but picking off the lice. Keeping away the rats. Some of the convicts marked down for going been on the hulk so long they turn restless, many a fight break out, the guards lock up the troublemakers.

I know the day to leave must be close, when we each called to go stand in front of the surgeon superintendent, a man named McKay. Get checked if we healthy enough to sail. One boy get sent off to hospital. Word go round that him insane. Bang him head against the wall, scream all day and all night, begging to go home. Maybe is not madness. Him just a child saying what we all thinking. Only thing is we know screaming and head banging not going make one scrap of difference.

Finally, one morning, we get woken earlier than usual. Six bells by the middle watch. By the time we make it up on deck for muster, the sky so dull, full up with clouds, we not know the dawn is bout to break. And once the weak-as-piss sun disappear, the drizzle start. A cold, fine drizzle that get under you shirt, dribble down you back. Collect round you feet. Is the beginning of spring, the other convicts tell me, but it don’t feel like it. The sun have no strength, never seem to burst out hot, full, strong, only hidden behind dark skies, grey rain. Must be why them in charge walk round with miserable, ugly faces. And that morning with all the dark clouds and freezing rain, them faces more miserable than ever.