I quickly drop me gaze, follow the convict in front of me as him clank him way up to the back. Sit down on the wooden bench, surprised when the guard draw a white sheet cross the front of us. Guess the congregation don’t like to look pon convict faces.

At first I try follow along, but the service not the loud singing, clapping and praising of the Lord. Is all bout hell and sin and laziness and damnation. So I come to do like the other convicts do, catch a little sleep, while keeping me eyes open. Rest me weary bones knowing that Monday morning going come soon enough and the work going start up all over again.

Is good to rest, but it bring an ache to me heart. A deep longing to be back listening to Sam Sharpe. And the memory of them days, when the hope of freedom was upon me, whirl round and round inside me head, inside me heart, till silent tears crawl down me face.

Soon as the church service over, the guard them march us back cross the road to the barracks. Since is Sunday, we get to do whatever little thing that need doing. Mend a tear in a shirt, fix a buckle on a belt, fashion a pipe out of clay. Some of the convicts make straw hats they sell to get a few coins.

Eighteen of us blacks imprisoned on this colony land. All from different islands. Some of us get transported at the same time, some in different ships. Many a time, specially in the evening, we huddle together in the pebble courtyard to talk bout how much we miss the islands. Miss the food we used to cook up over the fire. How we used to sit outside, under the stars, feel the warm night breeze on our skin as we drank a cup of bush tea. Say it loud enough, so any convicts nearby can listen in, watch as them mouths start to water.

‘Plantain,’ I say, and the game begin, each man speaking up whenever him please.

‘Yes, plantain.’

‘Soft, sweet, roast it in the skin.’

‘Sometimes mash it up.’

‘Eat it with a little bit of saltfish.’

‘Okra, bitter greens we grow in the provision grounds.’

‘Yes. Yes. Yam, corn, sweet potato.’

‘Boil dem, roast dem. If you lucky have a little chicken stew.’

‘Now that is what me call food!’ John McBean say, licking him lips.

I discover McBean was a fighter in the rebellion, slaving for a man by the name of Alexander Dingwall on a small plantation up near the coast. He came over on the boat, the one backra call the Strathfieldsaye. A ship that dock in June, a few months ahead of the Moffatt.