Most convicts, as soon as them arrive, get assigned to private masters. Spend only two or three days at the barracks before getting loaded into the back of a cart, sent off to homesteads in the bush. I keep hoping I going get assigned to leave this wretched place, but I always get assigned to the government gang.

Trudge through Sydney town, shackled, walking two by two in a long line down King Street. Most people pay convicts no mind, just keep going bout them business, don’t seem to bother them seeing chained men prodded along the busy street. Many times the overseer shout at us to stop, to make way for a horse-drawn carriage or a cart loaded down with supplies. It take me back to the Mother Country because Sydney streets just as dirty and uncared for, houses tight and dark, some broken down, left to spoil. Instead of starting fresh, is like backra try to turn this town right back into the place they come from. Only difference is the dogs running in packs through the street, peeing on every street corner, marking them territory. If hungry enough, them dogs been known to take down a horse, steal a child left too long on him own. As to the goats, they move bout from yard to yard, jumping over fences, eating everything in sight.

‘Hurry it up, you lazy buggers,’ the overseer shout when him see us convicts standing still. ‘Haven’t got all blooming day to wait for you! Be lively now. No lagging behind.’ Then him lean down, shout in me face. ‘What d’you think you been sent out here to do, Buchanan? Enjoy a Sunday bloody picnic?’

The first job I get assigned to is digging wells for wealthy citizens who can afford them own. That work is better than most, better then when me and three other convicts get hitched up like horses, forced to pull a cart up from the wharf, loaded with supplies.

Convicts work every day except Sunday. Wake to the sound of numbers, the clock striking and the guard them ringing a bell, banging on the wooden door before they unbolt it.

I learn fast is best to make you way quick to the wash house. Use the water when it is most fresh. Change the slop clothes them give us, clothes that get washed once a week, then get lined up and marched across the open plaza to a pretty little church called Saint James.

The first time I enter, I start to look round, see if this church different to the ones me used to. The guard point him wooden baton at me.

‘What the devil are you looking at, Buchanan? Those pews are not for the likes of you.’